


Inked

by NovaNara



Series: Let's write Sherlock (mostly too late) [23]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst galore, Angst with a Happy Ending, But not enough to stop, Emotional trauma (sort of), Eventual Happy Ending, For the characters and the readers that expect an immediate happy ever after, I'm Sorry, I'm evil, LITERALLY, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Mutually Unrequited, Romance, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Series Rewrite, Slow Burn, The boys are idiots, Tumblr: letswritesherlock, VERY eventual, Which means that it follows canon up to the fall, buckle up we're in for the long haul, but it will come, going au after hiatus, soulmate's names, they think
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2018-02-13 23:50:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 176,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2170035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaNara/pseuds/NovaNara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having your soulmate's name inked on your skin does not guarantee that your love life will be easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing  
> A.N. I adore this AU and I can only hope that I will do it justice. The Dark Wave theory(not with such a name) I found on Tumblr a long time ago. If you know who it belongs to, let me know and I will give proper credit.

The Holmes marriage is the thing of fairy tales.

When people reach puberty, on their wrists appears a name. It is the name of their soulmate, the one person in the whole wide world who could give them perfect happiness. Their one destined love. Not everyone finds it. Most never do, in fact. It would be weird, if pairs were always born next door, or even in the same nation. It is sad, in a way, but it is half of a blessing.

When your soulmate dies, the name will blur to a shapeless blob. It doesn't mean anything – unless you found them already. If you bonded, touching name to name, and one of you dies, the other won't be late in following.

Richard Holmes' name read “Shéherazade”, and that would have been enough for most to decide finding her was impossible. Not Holmes, though. He went into politics and managed to become a diplomat, because where was he supposed to find a Shéherazade in England? Damascus, now that's more likely. He finds her in Paris at the end, instead, but that's beside the point.

Their mother insists on giving both her offsprings the weirdest name she can think of. It won't matter who their significant other is. Her children won't have to worry, to wonder, not even to search. Their soul mate will only have to pick a phone book to find them, because really, how many Mycroft will be out there?

...Now if only My wasn't so keen on secrecy and security and being unreachable, in all senses of the word, mum's plan would have gone a lot better. If Mycroft hadn't been left alone to deal with a difficult (to be polite) little brother _because_ their parents were soulmates, the exact reason mum followed so swiftly after dad's accident, perhaps he wouldn't loathe the very concept of soulmates so much – and love too, for good measure.

A teen Sherlock isn't so much against it. Actually, having someone not despise him would be great, and he thinks a soulmate should guarantee that at least. Now, if only the name wasn't the only data he had. Or said name wasn't so desperately common. John, really? There are way too many around, and most of them concur with the rest of the populace: Sherlock is a freak.

The continuous cycle of meeting – _hope_ (vicious, vicious hope) – reciprocal verbal abuse – disappointment is nothing but wearing. He decides he's not interested in searching, when he has no way to find. He has better things to do (even when he doesn't because high, or bored is still better than disappointed). He locks his emotions away at the best of his ability and promptly loses the key to that room of his mind palace.

 

John's name is a puzzle. Because, really, what is Sherlock? Nobody ever heard of a name like that. They don't even know if it is supposed to be a girl's name or a man's. Watson senior, though, decides it is a female name. “God can't hate me so much as to want our family to wither away,” he proclaims once, when John is 15 and his sister 17.

“Clara and I might have a child, you know. With a donor,” Harriet points out angrily.

“Having a third someone's intervention is not right. We wouldn't have our soulmate's name revealed to us if these things were meant to be,” her father objects. He's one of these who believe the names are God's will, and takes it very seriously.

There are some other explanations. John loves the one which says that particles side by side during the Big Bang aim to reunite, and that the naming process sends some sort of wave that influences them to take a shape. It's called the Dark Wave theory, since there's no actual proof yet. He knows better than to say it at home, though.

Henry Watson – his father – likes to think that he's obeyed God's will and found his soulmate, though reality later will prove him wrong. A homonym – it happens often. People settle with the first Mary, or Tom, or whatever that they can stand and fool themselves into thinking that they are one of the lucky few to have their soulmate by their side.

“I'm sure Sherlock is a lovely girl, dad,” John says, trying to appease. He's never looked at a man twice anyway. Shouldn't he have been interested in one already if his soulmate was a man?

“Pity that you won't ever find her,” Harriet hisses, venomous as always when John, in her opinion, plays daddy's good boy.

“Why?” he replies, hurt. He wants his Sherlock. Very much.

“I'm pretty sure that isn't an English name,” she states triumphantly.

“You might have a point, dear,” their mother agrees.

“Mum!” John protests.

“It sounds Swedish to me. Or Norwegian, maybe. You might still find her, you know. A tourist, or someone on a study trip. Would you like one of these blond beauties, love?” their mother ponders.

John grins. He'd like one very much.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N. I'd like to say sorry to Victor Trevor. Really I am, but still unrepentant. Disclaimer: nothing mine. Conan Doyle and BBC share the rights. From next chapter I'll follow the series adding people's feelings. Just letting you know – hope that's okay.

University is horrible. Everyone hates Sherlock, and he despises everyone in turn. It's not his fault that people can't stand truth. It's totally unreasonable for his peers to get angry at him for outing their actions. They should not do things they're ashamed to admit, instead.

The only boy whom Sherlock grows attached to is Victor Trevor. Victor accosts him first, well...Victor's dog, and while for a moment Sherlock thinks the dog was sicced on him, Victor is so sorry and kind that he discards the hypothesis. Amazingly, Victor never reacts badly to Sherlock being...well, Sherlock. It's so unusual that Sherlock starts to devise ways to know Victor's full name, hoping there might be a John somewhere. The simplest way would be to ask Mycroft, but Mycroft would immediately read Sherlock's silly, fanciful hopes, and try to set his little brother's straight. He's not in the mood for a lecture.

He gets way worse than a lecture, though. He has it so bad (his emotions leak steadily from the door he's closed them behind) that he actually misses Victor every second they aren't together, and searching for him once he stumbles on something. Something he should have deduced long ago, really. But he was too pitifully eager to have someone to question the whys and hows like he should have. And here Victor is, _with Mycroft_ , pocketing money and discussing a pay raise because really, Sherlock is just that unbearable. Sherlock doesn't interrupt them, but when Victor comes by later, he bits out that he hopes Victor saved his income, because Sherlock doesn't want to be a burden anymore, he doesn't want to see Victor – at all – and that means Mycroft won't continue to pay him. Victor – Trevor doesn't try to deny anything, at least. He looks equal parts miffed (for the lack of ulterior money, no doubt) and relieved to have been discovered, actually. He won't need to pretend anymore. 

Sherlock dabbled with drugs, but after Victor, he starts using heavily. He needs the distraction (Sherlock  _can't miss him_ ). Reality is simply too awful to face. He drifts off. Off university. Off everything. He spends awhile on the streets, then Mycroft finds him and packs him to rehab. Sherlock escapes. He's on the streets again, making friends with the other homeless people. 

And then, high as a kite, he stumbles on a crime scene, and solves it. It's obvious, really. But solving it – it's a rush. He likes it. He locates Lestrade again. The man, if half-heartedly, drives him away because he can't allow a junkie on a crime scene. Spiteful, Sherlock goes to do  _more_ drugs and overdoses (accidentally, he swears). Billy, who likes the boy entirely too much (you simply can't get attached to clients in his line of work), and hears him out when he's raving, manages to contact Mycroft. It saves his life.

Mycroft knows all (of course, the git), and together with Lestrade – who will take all credit for the idea – they arrange for Sherlock to be allowed to consult...as long as he's clean. Sherlock does not escape from the next rehab. As long as his brain is stimulated, he can pretend the rest of him does not exist at all – like he needs. And if he starts a website, it's just so that he can get clients. More cases. Boredom is toxic to him. Not because that way, if  _John_ writes 'Sherlock' on Google, he'll get the consulting detective's mobile phone number. Not at all.

When he's at uni, John discovers that Sherlock is not a Scandinavian name. Selda says so, and she should know. She's not just Norwegian, she loves literature, and even in more archaic poems, she's never read the name. She has no reason to lie. She's on holiday in England, John is not her name, so it's not like she wants to keep him. They're still having a great time together. She's a true friend (with definite benefits) and so only half joking John asked her if she had a friend named Sherlock. That aroused her curiosity and ultimately brought John to the revelation. No blonde beauty on sight anymore for John, sadly.

He needs to reevaluate. John ponders about his mysterious name, researches a bit, and comes up with a new hypothesis. (He still finds no trace of such a name anywhere.) Maybe it's Korean. Their names are usually two-sillables long, easily sound strange if one's not used to them, and half the time how to write them in our alphabet is up for debate. Sherlock might very well be a variant of transliteration, and that's why he has never seen the name come up in his searches. Maybe if he searched Ser-look or something of the sort he'd find the name, at least. He doesn't search any variation of it, though. After all, it would only add to his frustration if he didn't find, and he hasn't enough imagination to guess what the correct form might be, or why it's written like this on his wrist. Maybe he'll mishear the name the first time and this is what he'll understand? If he finds her, of course. If she's on the other side of the world, the chances of that are beyond low. Still, John dreams of finding her. He's a romantic. There are worse flaws, if it even is one.

He knows it won't be easy, though, or happen soon – barring lucky serendipity, and he's never been much of a lucky person. Until then, he can have the next best thing. If not his destined romance, adventure. He signs up for the army. He can be useful there. Actually save lives, instead of diagnosing colds.

And it'll put some distance between him and his family. Harry has found Clara – well, _a_ Clara – and has settled down with remarkable swiftness. He's happy for her, really. He wishes nothing more than for her to have really found her soulmate. But knowing that her childish taunts were true – that he's not likely to find his someone – hell, even someone he can _pretend_ is his destined love...It makes her blatant happiness sting. So, if the army brings him away from family dinners, Harry and Clara and dad's pitying looks because no Sherlock is still in sight, it's a bonus. He should pay them to be saved from such awkwardness. From his own fleeting doubts, sometimes, when he's depressed, that he has no soulmate at all and Sherlock is just random gibberish.

He'll work, and fight, and fuck every pretty girl who's not _Her –_ will never be _Her –_ but damn if John isn't going to have as much of a fun time as he can. Until getting shot at becomes being shot, and John's pleading with God to survive, because he hasn't found her yet and he wants to. He doesn't want Sherlock's name to blot and her to know she's now all alone in the world.


	3. Chapter 3

When he's sent back to England, John finds out that everything has gone downhill. Dad is dead. Harry and Clara have divorced – well, Harry left her. "She wasn't my soulmate, Johnny. I knew from the start, but...she was a Clara, and you know how dad could get. She didn't stand me, lately," his sister whines. John lets her. He doesn't have answers to that. But he knew Clara, and he has a feeling that what she couldn't stand wasn't Harry but her drinking habit (Harry's not just drunk right now – John's a doctor, he knows the signs). Knowing that his sister used poor, gentle Clara to keep dad at least half-content and ditched her when she complained about her drinking...it might be his sister, but he doesn't like Harry very much. She pushes the mobile phone into his hands. She wants to stay in contact. She'd like him to stay, full stop, but she needs help, and he can't be the one to provide it right now. He needs help too. He's broken. Together, they'd be a disaster waiting to happen.

John almost walks past Mike Stamford. He doesn't want to talk. He doesn't want people who knew him before to see the thing he's become now. The cripple. The surgeon with trembling hands. (Not a surgeon anymore. Not a soldier. What is he, exactly?) But he can't accelerate and walk past Mike. His leg rebels to it. So, a few clipped words it is. Mike and his pretence to know him (he doesn't know himself anymore). His sensible, helpful suggestions. Like he could fix John's life for him. John hates that. But then – there is mirth at some secret joke John isn't sharing, and he wants to. He agrees to see the man. He wouldn't get a flatmate. Of course not. But it couldn't hurt, could it?

And then John meets him. His first thought it's that he's an actor. Maybe one who needs to play some sort of medical role and is here harassing true medical practitioners as a result. He's surely pretty enough to be one. John is helpful on reflex, almost before he catches himself doing it, offering his mobile phone. Without even looking at him, as if he's not interested, this man asks, "Afghanistan or Iraq," and given that Mike hasn't gone past his name introducing him how does he know? And Mike is smiling his knowing smile all the while. John is unpleasantly surprised – not what he wants to discuss now – but then the stranger repeats the question, and John has no reason to withhold information, so he doesn't. He asks where that question came from, though.

But it doesn't seem that he ranks very high, because his question goes blatantly ignored. And it's not just the pretty girl's interruption and the most weird lines of...that doesn't even qualify as flirting that John has ever heard. Maybe this man will accept pointers? He is, after all, Three-Continents Watson.

The matter is that this man likes throwing John for a loop, because he's talking about violins. And then finally John starts catching up and understanding, because they're talking of flat sharing which is why he's there. So Mike must have warned him, but he swears he hasn't, and if he didn't have his mobile phone, met John outside and brought him with him he's probably right too.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" John asks because what is this man, a psychic?

Apparently it was bloody self-evident, as the man explains. John supposes it is, when told like it. But there's one thing that's bugging him still.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" he asks again.

And again, he's ignored (and isn't that absolutely rude?). Instead, he's told that the man already is considering one specific place and that he'll do. Then, with one last outrageous remark about a riding crop, of all things, the stranger is about to run away.

"Is that it?" John queries sternly. Because it doesn't make any sense. He doesn't even know the name of this man. Just that he's rude and evasive...no, enigmatic. Hardly conducive to wanting to room with him, as the stranger seems to assume he'll consider doing.

It brings the man back to him, at least. And when John says – implies, really – how surreal all this is, his potential flatmate has the gall to challenge him with a, "Problem?"

Honestly, this man is incredible. And Mike is still smiling. Enjoying the show, as it were. Damn. John points out everything he doesn't know – everything he should know, to even start to take in consideration flat sharing – and for the first time, this man looks at him. Really, really looks at him. Like he's a specimen of some sort and the other a scientist, maybe, and it's slightly unnerving, but he's a soldier. He won't get scared being stared at.

Then his flatmate to be is spouting details of his life (and of Harry's life, though he gets the sex wrong) that he has absolutely no business knowing. Things he hasn't told Mike. Things he hasn't told anyone since he's back but his therapist, and he's pretty sure Ella hasn't leaked it to this impossible man. So how does he know?

The git has the gall to goad him, because what else is saying, "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" Yes, this man knows John better than most. Better than he has any right to, in fact, but it doesn't resolve the problem of John's ignorance.

The bastard does his exit, but then apparently seems to remember that John can't meet him because he doesn't know bloody where. He comes back and underturns John's world with a few words. "The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one B Baker Street." He winks – actually winks – and leaves, courteously leaving John to have a panic attack in peace.

Mike is all sympathy. "He's always like that," he says, as if John had just been overwhelmed by this man...Sherlock's...outrageous attitude. But now his words are on loop inside John's head. "The name's Sherlock...Sherlock...Sherlock..." It's the first time John is sure this is an actual name. And there's an impossible man bearing it. Oh Christ. What is he supposed to do? Beside go to look at that flat. That's a given.

For a fleeting moment, John is happy that his dad is already dead, because telling him that he's finally found his male soulmate would have given him a coronary anyway. He leaves Bart's quickly. Retire and regroup. How can he start a romantic relationship with a man if he's never been attracted to one? Yes, Sherlock is not a normal man by any stretch of the imagination, he's known him ten minutes and he's already sure. If he has to have an exception to the rule, at least it's an exceptional individual in all the senses. But it means he's ill prepared to deal with this. Why had he ever assumed Sherlock would be a female, beyond pleasing dad? That was so silly of him. Is it even possible to botch up the relationship with one's soulmate? John doesn't want to find out.

Curious about Sherlock, he types "Sherlock Holmes" and finds The Science of Deduction. The claims on the site are simply absurd, because identifying a pilot from his left thumb is clearly preposterous. But he still doesn't know how Sherlock knew about Afghanistan, or Harry's drinking. And who classifies 243 types of tobacco ash? What purpose can it possibly serve? ...And why wasn't this site up before he signed up for the army? He'd have called. Met him before. Maybe settled, skipping all the mindless relationships and the getting shot.

Perhaps it's the mention of deduction in the site name, or the fact that he'd assumed wrongly before, but now that he's imagining getting comfortably settled with Sherlock and maybe married later on he reminds himself suddenly and sharply that this is a Sherlock, not necessarily his Sherlock. That time in Italy when a girl had accosted him, interceding for a date with her shy friend Andrea and John had agreed, only to discover that in Italy Andrea was a male name returns unbidden to his memory. Sherlock could be an English male name and a Korean female name. He'll have to see, won't he?

Sherlock hates it. He shouldn't react like this. He should have given it up as a bad job decades ago. Still, hearing Mike say, "It's an old friend of mine, John Watson," causes a racket inside the mind palace. Teenager Sherlock, who accidentally got locked in with his emotions in the attic long ago, tries to lockpick the deadbolt and let himself out. Let all the feelings out. Luckily his hands shake with all the emotional turmoil he's permanently going through, and he doesn't manage. Sherlock still hears him, though. "Oh please, let this be the one. Let him be my John. John? John? Please, John!"

Sherlock barely looks at this John. He keeps himself occupied – with the case, with anything at all – even while he talks with him. And to shut his teen self up, he deduces John. He expects an immediate, strong adverse reaction as usual – proof that John is not _his John_. Instead, John is apparently too shocked to react properly. Sherlock runs away before he can make John change idea about taking a look at 221B by being himself – he does need a flatmate, even a temporary one. Teen!Sherlock, trapped as he is, manages to hijack control of transport for a second, for the first time in years. The wink is a lamentable instinct Sherlock should have never acted upon, but he has and there's no rewriting time. And now he's going to meet John at 221B and hopefully persuade him to share the flat, and if he's lucky he won't be making a fool of himself in the process.

That isn't so probable, because John and he haven't exchanged more than two lines and he's already rambling – about Mrs. Hudson's case, but anything would do, honestly.

John likes the place, likes even the flat, but he doesn't like Sherlock. Or his byproducts. Soldier, why didn't Sherlock deduce that he wouldn't stand his mess and tidy up in advance. He makes a half-hearted attempt, but it's too little too late. And he notices the skull next, and what if it's all too freaky for him to stay? But his finances are tight enough that he won't pass this chance up. He'll stay – a little bit. It scares Sherlock how bad he wants John to stay. It's not the name. He's just too lonely these days, he tells himself – not that he'll ever admit it to a living soul.

And Mrs. Hudson is asking whether they'll need two rooms. (She doesn't know his name, does he? He covers it up all the time – it's only proper, and it's about the only proper thing he does.) And John replies, "Of course," quite poignantly too. _Of course_ . He's not Sherlock's John. No point daydreaming. When their landlady continues about the matter and John looks at him for support, he can't make himself say they're nothing. Even if they are. It's silly. He doesn't care what others think of him. It's true, and that's what he'll tell if John asks an explanation of such behaviour. But the truth is – something  _clicked_ inside Sherlock when he met the army doctor (and it scares him half to death) and he's behaving like every ordinary fool out there, pretending if only to himself someone is his soulmate even if he's wrong. He should want John to be out of his life before he can ruin it any further – and he doesn't. He fiercely doesn't.

But then John mentions looking him up, and it pleases him. John is interested in him. It's nice. He mentions the blog, and Sherlock preens. His blog is good. His blog isn't freakish, it has helpful informations that would allow people to deduce things too, if only they bothered to read it. But John doubts his deductive abilities, his tone clearly disbelieving. Why would he? Sherlock, defensive, points out that he's deduced him – and his brother too, from that mobile phone.

John asks how, he's interested. He could be outraged remembering that Sherlock stripped him of his privacy with nonchalance. Instead he wants to know. It does not conform to known patterns. It's so much better. He smiles – he can't help to – and he would explain, but then Mrs. Hudson interjects. It's like they were in their own bubble, and she destroyed it. He won't get it back, because Lestrade is coming up. And isn't it great? Finally a case. A serial killer case. It's brilliant. It's Christmas. And yet, there's a part of him that finds leaving John to deal with the likes of Anderson positively distasteful. But there's nothing to be done for that, right? This is a case he won't absolutely pass up. The police are floundering without him, and there's a serial killer to catch. John and his deviations from the norm will be still at 221B for him to study when he gets back.

Sherlock already has a foot out of 221B's door, when he realizes that he doesn't necessarily have to deal with Anderson. His flatmate has a scientific preparation that could prove useful. He's back into the flat in a rush. He approaches the problem in a roundabout way, by reiterating his deduction about his flatmate's profession. Army doctor. John needlessly confirms it. Next, he goads him with, "Any Good?".

When John replies, " _Very_ good," Sherlock believes him. This is not a defensive or boastful claim. John is very good at his job. All the better. 

Again, Sherlock is indirect, needing to gauge the situation. There's the PTSD and that awful psychosomatic limp (which irks him for reasons unknown) to take into account. "Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths," he adds conversationally. As if he had all the time to stand here and make small talk when there's a serial killer to catch.

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much," John replies, and it should dampen all his hopes, but these lines – they're honest, in a sense, but there's a tiredness in them, like they're lines he had to repeat too much lately. And they say what it's only proper to say. People do the silliest things because it's the proper thing to do.

Sherlock takes his gamble. "Wanna see some more?" he offers.

John's "God, yes!" is like that of a man who's finally been offered what he was searching for all his life. Sherlock leads him away, with the certainty of being followed, and the presence behind him makes him giddy.

There's a minor hurdle, caused by their landlady, but he's on fever both because of the case and because _John's with him, willingly_ , as Teen!Sherlock continues to point out. So maybe his enthusiasm compounds and he's positively exuberant. But he can't be hindered now. When he tells her, "Who cares about decent?" he hopes John will hear him out too. No more _proper_ answers, please. Let's enjoy this. Together.

When they're in a taxi, he pulls out his mobile phone for want of something – anything – to concentrate on beyond the wonderful, terrifying prospect of having someone by his side. He can't stand the silence, though, (it makes Teen!Sherlock esponentially louder) and he's been evading John's questions since yesterday, so he might as well indulge his flatmate.

The first question, "Where are we going?" is pretty dull, so his answer is laconic. Though he's yet again warmed inside by the evidence that John will follow him without having the faintest idea of where he's leading. Profound, entirely undeserved – at the moment – trust.

"Who are you? What do you do?" John queries next. Sherlock can't help it. He questions back, asking John's hypothesis on the matter. The man has seen his website, after all; he's seen Lestrade. He should be able to make an informed inference.

John's conjecture is private detective, but he's so hesitant about it that it's evident even he doesn't believe it entirely. Sherlock prompts him to expound his objections too.

"The police don't go to private detectives," John points out.

Sherlock then reveals what his actual job is, and explains it for John who, understandably, isn't sure about what it entails. Since Sherlock has created his own career, it's forgiveable.

But then John mortifies him, by objecting, "The police don't consult amateurs".

Hurt, Sherlock glowers at him. Instead of giving him up like any other idiot, or insulting back, he feels the odd urge to prove himself. He does what he never does spontaneously (Lestrade needs much prodding and pleading to make him explain). He doesn't say, "I deduced you just yesterday," he expounds on how he managed to do so. Even knowing it's all so simple when one reveals the trick, knowing John will finally get angry at him for revealing all his life's details in a cab, where the cabbie who necessarily overhears them isn't even a friend like Stamford was. Or maybe he'll say that so, Sherlock just obsesses over meaningless details. The result can never be positive, but he'll be damned if Sherlock doesn't demonstrate to his flatmate that he's no simple amateur. 

Even with the mess his feelings are at the moment, he smiles at John during his explanation. His mouth is doing it all on its own, he swears. It's just, looking at John, he can't help himself.

He ends on a half-teasing,half-arrogant note, "You were right – the police don't consult amateurs," but he's nervous. He looks out of the window, waiting for John's awaited outburst, biting his lips to stop himself from adding anything else to fill the uncomfortable silence and indubitably making a bigger fool of himself. 

Not for the first time, John proves himself an unique individual. He breathes, "That was amazing."

But he can't mean that, can he? Sherlock turns to look at him, searching signs of sarcasm, but he finds none. Unable to believe what he's told, after a short speechless spell he asks John if he really thinks so. He fully expects a scathing reply.

John, instead, adds only more praise. And he says, "Of course." There's nothing that warrants an of course when the reaction to his deductions isn't negative. Unable to help himself, he points it out. "That's not what people normally say."

When – asked to do so – he reveals the usual reaction to the use of his abilities, carefully choosing it between the most polite and less hurtful things he's heard, he offers another small smile. Turning this into a joke. Understating how terribly momentous it is not to be scorned for his compulsive deducting. Then, the doctor does something as unexpected and as weighty as his praise. He smiles back. At Sherlock. When Sherlock hasn't carefully manipulated him into doing so. "My John," teen Sherlock states with utter conviction from his exile in the attic. When he discovers that his deductions were partially wrong, his teen self gets worried. “Must do better; John won't appreciate us anymore if we get things wrong. I want more of his praise!” he whines. He'd do a great many things for that. He's doomed isn't he?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: nothing mine

 

They arrive at the crime scene, and John feels very uncomfortable. What is he doing here? He has no official role. That's not his place. It's only his uneasiness that keeps him quiet against the policewoman. Sherlock is a bloody certified genius, he knew that after ten minutes with the man, and seeing him greeted with a Freak makes him despair for the state of their police more than knowing they seek consultation to solve their cases.

Sherlock is still trying to be professional despite that, and introduces him as a colleague, but Sergeant Sally Donovan (John's going to remember her name, just in case he needs to file an official complaint) shows a frankly insulting incredulity. John would understand if she implied that Sherlock doesn't need a colleague (he's more than capable of detecting on his own, John is sure) but that's not at all why she's surprised. “Did he follow you home?” she sneers, and John seethes. When he offers to stay back, though he covers it with his previous incertitude, it's to tell her off in private and at his leisure. He'd give her a dressing down she'll never forget, but Sherlock wants him by his side, and John's not going to argue.

Apparently the Sergeant isn't the only one disliking Sherlock, because this Anderson bloke is a right dick, too. No wonder Sherlock wants someone decent with him. But then, oh, then it's just precious, because John gets to witness Sherlock's deductions, once again, and if that isn't awesome enough, he gets to see them used as weapons against the two twats. Who fuck together, so maybe one's rudeness rubbed off on the other with all the other rubbing going on. No wonder they're so nasty. John just about stops himself from clapping at the show, and makes a point to look at Donovan's knees while following Sherlock in.

At least the DI isn't such a bastard (he actually lets Sherlock do pretty much what he wants, against regulations). If he questions John's presence, he's in his right to do so. But Sherlock won't explain beyond, “He's with me,” which he states quite forcefully. John wonders distractedly if this Sherlock – genius, gorgeous Sherlock – might be his Sherlock. If that sentence might take another, fuller meaning sometime soon.

And then John sees his very first crime scene. And Sherlock gets annoyed by people's thinking. Is he a psychic? A telepath? It would explain some things, but then again, he wouldn't have mistaken Harry's gender. No, he's just a moody genius. Then again, with Anderson's baseless suggestion that their victim is German, he might have a right to his moods. Since apparently it's obvious the woman was from Cardiff. John blurts out, “Sorry – it's obvious?” instinctively, because what damn is obvious about it? A moment later John is called to substitute a whole team of medical professional, because so Sherlock wants, and Lestrade has to give in because his resident genius is indispensable. And, as Sherlock says, the others “won't work with him.” If everyone behaves like Donovan and Anderson, John fully understands why Sherlock called for him. Though he still has to ask softly, “What am I doing here?” What does Sherlock want from him? He'll do his best to deliver, but he needs to know.

“Helping me make a point,” the detective replies just as softly.

John can do that, or at least he'll try. But he can't help but point out, “I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent.” Just that. And discover if you're my Sherlock along the way, maybe, but that's for another time.

“Yeah, well, this is more fun,” the sleuth remarks. Which isn't what John expected to hear. As much as he yearned to be there, in the midst of _something_ again, finally, he can't help but point out the obvious, “Fun? There's a woman lying dead.”

“Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper,” Sherlock quips. And God help John, he should be equal parts embarrassed and enraged, but he finds the jibe fun and compelling instead. He'll show Sherlock that he can delve deeper allright. Though everything he says they already know because she's the fourth in a series, for God's sake, and he should have known but he's been so entranced by Sherlock and the dynamics around him that he might have forgotten which case they were working on.

Then it's Sherlock's turn, and he dissects her work and love life like he knew her for years, and John can't help himself. He breathes, “That's brilliant.” Which distracts Sherlock from his rapid fire exposition enough to look at him, like he's never seen him, and John apologizes quietly for interrupting his work.

The detective insists that she's obviously from Cardiff but when John points out, “It's not obvious to me,” he relents and explains. After insulting both him and the DI, sure. But he walks them through his deductions again, and again, John can't contain his reactions. “That's fantastic!” he blurts out.

And again Sherlock turns to him and wonders, “Do you know you do that out loud?”

It's like being scolded by a teacher for talking in class, and like back then, John – again – apologizes and promises not to do it anymore. But then Sherlock surprises him, by saying, “No, it's...fine,” and John is suddenly reminded that he simply isn't used to the praise, that's why it surprises him. John vows then and there that he'll keep up the praise until Sherlock will see it like something commonplace, because this extraordinary man deserves this and more.

Seconds later, and Sherlock is manic about a missing suitcase. Which proves that the serial suicides are serial killings, because cases don't just disappear into thin air. John offers another hypothesis, more in hope of slowing Sherlock down than really believing it, and the detective immediately shoots him down. He's still excited, far too excited for it to be decent, almost literally shining with happiness, hands clapping in delight, and he's absolutely a sight. John is mildly jealous of the unknown killer who can put him into a state a lover would pay to be able to induce. Not that he's Sherlock's lover – yet. With a last, incomprehensible shout of, “Pink!” Sherlock runs away like a bullet.

John's leg suddenly aches again, people bumping into him carelessly, and he quietly seethes. He's been abandoned God-knows-where, and surely Sherlock is not his Sherlock. His soulmate wouldn't leave him alone to ask directions from the likes of Donovan, who clearly pities him. He hates being pitied; he's got more than enough of that already to last him a lifetime. And he hates more that he can't stop her. He doesn't have any witty remark for that, and needs to be thankful instead.

Then Donovan decides to be unpleasant some more, questioning his status, because apparently Sherlock doesn't have friends (well, maybe he just doesn't want to be friends with bastards). And John hates that he has no way to defend him, because he's met him just the day before and can't claim any sort of relationship yet. He might not be his soulmate, but Sherlock, annoying as he is, doesn't deserve her attitude; John knows this in his bones.

She warns him away from Sherlock (twice, at that), slandering the consulting detective abundantly. He's a psychopath, gets off on crime and will someday slaughter someone. John doesn't believe this for one moment. He's a doctor and a soldier and has always had the uncanny capacity to know when danger was imminent (he usually went towards it, but that didn't matter). Sherlock constitutes no danger. And he's not psychopathic. He's...unique. And maybe he gets off on crime a little bit, but there are worse paraphilias. Better than her choice of partners.

Then the day goes from unusual to downright bizarre. John wonders if he's fallen asleep after watching Bond and this is all a stupid dream, because the public phones ringing and camera waving and being sort-of kidnapped just doesn't happen in real life. Did he dream meeting Sherlock, too? It sure would make sense.

If this is a dream, he has never met his maybe soulmate, and whatever he does won't have consequences. If this is reality, he might as well try to play Bond and seduce the gorgeous kidnapper. It might give him an advantage. ...So maybe this is reality because he's very much rejected, with only the quickest disapproving frown from the anonymous woman. If this was a dream he'd surely have scored with her. Which means he's really met Sherlock. And he's really been brought to a empty warehouse. He waits for someone to tell him it was an incredibly elaborate practical joke.

He's still under that assumption when he tells the mystery man that's appeared to call directly John's phone next time. Only it's soon clear that the joke is not on him, but on Sherlock, and John remembers what Sherlock's work entails and wonders if some criminal might really be enough of a drama queen to go for this ridiculous way of threatening, or whatever it's coming up.

When the man, giving him a curious look, remarks, “You don't seem very afraid,” John is honest.

“You don't seem very frightening,” he replies. He's faced war, he's not about to get scared of an umbrella.

Apparently that's a joke for the other man, because he chuckles and offers a compliment wrapped in an insult (or is it the opposite?), showing he knows about John's past, before inquiring sternly about his connection to Sherlock.

Which is no business of his, and anyway, John's not even sure. Are they soulmates? Just flatmates? Colleagues? He was brought to the crime scene after all. So he sidesteps the issue by claiming that said connection doesn't exist. He did meet Sherlock only yesterday. There was no time for a relationship to form. Though it feels like he knows him from a lifetime; maybe they're really soulmates? Is this how he should feel?

The stranger comments, “Mmm, and since yesterday you’ve moved in with him and now you’re solving crimes together. Bit of a whirlwind romance, but expected in the case of soulmates.”

“We're not soulmates,” John denies, and he doesn't even know why. But he's not sure himself, and this man irks him and shouldn't be privy to his personal business.

“No?” the man queries, rising a disbelieving eyebrow.

“No,” John insists, with much more finality than he really feels. “And anyway, who are you?”

Things get even more ridiculous from there. The man (who, like Donovan, makes a jab at Sherlock's capability to have friends at all – Christ, does Sherlock only know twats?) is the sleuth's arch-enemy, or so he says the detective would define him. And he'd like to buy information out of John. “Since he's not your soulmate, you shouldn't find distasteful to feed me some details. Compatibly with your conscience, of course. I'd reward you handsomely.”

John tells him where he can stuff his rewards. He wouldn't do it even if Sherlock turned out not to be his Sherlock. His genius...something needs protecting, and John Watson is the man for the job.

Which makes the creep – who apparently has access to the notes of John's therapist, and how the fuck does he? John's trust issues are fully justified – jibe, “ Despite your trust issues, you're very loyal very quickly, for someone so adamant about not having any connection with Sherlock Holmes. But you're about to forge a strong one, says your left hand.”

“What?” John blurts out.

It – or its current lack of trembling – proves he misses the danger, according to the arrogant git, and that he should sack his therapist. He's already going to for leaking his notes anyway. And by Sherlock's side he's going to have plenty of that, according to the meddling bastard. Almost to prove that point, the texts he's been getting from Sherlock, requiring his return, are followed by a last one. Could be dangerous. SH Thank God that his failed employer lets him go right then, offering him a lift back too. John would have no problems subduing him in order to run back home, but taxis seem to ignore him in the worst way.

Sherlock has tried to concentrate on the case. He's tried valiantly, with all the aids he could think of. Still, coming home and not finding John there, as he'd expected, proves distracting. Where is John? He isn't rethinking his stay, is he? John wouldn't be back to wherever he was staying before or searching for other accommodations without even telling Sherlock. He's not that kind of man.

Not that Sherlock would be inconvenienced if John was, he tells himself. Only that's a lie. Oh, he solves the case – but he takes a shamefully long time to see it. He calls back John. Of course he does. He would already be running after a serial killer in normal conditions, but these aren't normal conditions, and anyway his mobile phone number is on the blog. He needs John for a number of reasons.

The moment John comes back, Sherlock plays unconcerned – almost unaware – but he still visibly relaxes. If John notices he'll mock him, won't he? So Sherlock rambles about nicotine patches and smoking habits, as if to hint his behaviour should be attributed to nicotine.

The doctor is still keyed up from Sherlock's hint at danger in his text, and demands an explanation. The sleuth still doesn't look at him – doesn't dare to, should John read how easy it is for him to rattle Sherlock, the raw need perhaps still in his eyes. That shouldn't be there, Sherlock used to be self-sufficient. What's happening to him? So he latches to the mobile phone excuse.

John is momentarily outraged that he's needed to send a text, and still agitated by the meeting that made him late. Realizing that it was all Mycroft's doing, Sherlock relaxes further even while he becomes annoyed at his brother's usual meddling.

He cavalierly suggests to John to take Mycroft's money should he offer again, surprising him. It'd keep John around – for a time at least – and he wants that. He wants John's presence, unreasonable as it is, and bribing him to get it doesn't look at all disgusting and humiliating this time. He wonders if that should worry him.

And anyway, Mycroft should at least pay for annoying them, but he doesn't care enough to explain it. He's purposefully vague about his brother, even if he's completely honest (Mycroft can be very dangerous), because he doesn't want to be held accountable for Mycroft's irritating behaviour.

John's bitchiness slips away soon. He even cares about Sherlock, when he thinks (misunderstanding everything, and maybe he isn't Sherlock's John because shouldn't he keep up then?) that the detective might have blacked out. Probably it's just a byproduct of his Hippocratic oath but it's still nice to see in someone not obligated to it by blood. Very nice indeed.

He doesn't even assume Sherlock to be a murderer finding the case in his possession, when it would be logical, and seems to find the idea so outlandish that it's amusing. And yet he has met Donovan. John is interested – again – in his work, inquiring about it, and looks impressed. That's so very novel, and so good of a change. He doesn't even get angry when Sherlock accidentally insults him and accepts his hasty not-entirely apology. (It's true though: everyone is an idiot.) He's a definite keeper (as flatmate, at least).

Understanding that he's texted a murderer, John is a bit shocked, but very practical, enquiring about police involvement and not accusing Sherlock, who's enjoying a successful bait. The question about why Sherlock choose to share this with him is, actually, a very good one. And he has no true reason beyond going with his instinct. So he searches an acceptable answer in the flat and he's very glad to find his skull missing. And again, John is not shocked or angry at Sherlock's thoughtless reply, only vaguely bemused. He doesn't seem to get that he's involved in the investigation already and should just follow Sherlock. So the detective prompts him, and if he justifies his request slightly rambling, John only smiles. True, he brings up Donovan's accusations about 'getting off on this' (which he does not; he enjoys it deeply, but there's nothing remotely sexual about it), which is distasteful. But when Sherlock claims a case of pot calling the kettle black – what with John running towards danger instead than from it – John doesn't try to deny it. Most people would, even when proven wrong.

Minutes later they're at Angelo's, and strangely, John still registers on Sherlock's radar. With a serial killer who very well could come any moment, Sherlock's focus should be entirely on that. The rest of the world might very well drop out of existence. Instead, he's aware enough to be annoyed by John's quick, “Not his date.” _Who cares_ , he wants to protest. _Just go with the flow._

It's not that he wants John to be his date. Not exactly. But if he ever had to have a date, it'd be with someone like John. Someone who appreciates him. Someone complicated enough not to be boring (John is a nest of contradictions; it interests Sherlock). While apparently John finds the idea absurd. Well, why?He's not a bad catch. A clever, successful detective – he makes a point to remind John by talking about Angelo's case with the man.

It does nothing to persuade John, because when Angelo's behaviour continues on the assumption that their relationship is romantic in nature, the doctor reiterates his own remark almost angrily. He must find the idea repulsive.

But does he really? When John inquires about Mycroft's exact role (because, apparently, people don't have arch-enemies; so dull) the sleuth manages to shift the conversation until somehow they are on the matter of romantic relations, and there's much more lip-licking going on than any uninterested person has any right to. And John inquires about his status. “So? Have you found your soulmate yet?”

“No I haven't; and I'm not searching for mine either,” Sherlock replies. Well, it's all true; he's not searching, and teen!Sherlock's convictions are entirely baseless. John is confounding at the very least. And he should be worrying about an oncoming serial killer now.

John accepts the declaration with a vague noise, then insists, “Are you in a relationship with someone who isn't your soulmate? Which is fine, by the way.”

 _And why wouldn't it be? John didn't look like a bigot. “I know_ it's fine,” Sherlock counters. _I know even the statistics on soulmate finding; the world would be depopulated if only soulmates were allowed to marry_.

“So you are with someone who's not your soulmate then?” John queries.

“No,” Sherlock says simply. He swallows back the 'Who would ever _stand me?_ '

“Right. Okay. You're unattached. Like me. Fine. Good,” the doctor comments.

While a moment ago Sherlock wanted nothing more than for John to desire him, now the very strong chance of exactly that scares him terribly. He could give into it, all too easily. But then what? If John is not his soulmate (and no matter how much he wishes for it, he has no hard evidence of it), and statistically talking John probably isn't, he'll surely leave Sherlock, sooner rather than later. He'll despise Sherlock, just like everyone else. And Sherlock will be left heartbroken and used and John will have ammunition against him.

The detective can at least cut down his inevitable losses. So his reply (so awkward that it's painful) is, “John, um...I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any...”

But apparently Sherlock's own feelings are already clouding his judgement and his ability to deduce, because John hurries to deny any such intention. Yes, he looks crestfallen for a second, but maybe Sherlock is again misinterpreting things, seeing what he wants to see. The sleuth wishes briefly for the earth to swallow him up, but John is kind, reiterating, “It's all fine.”

Thank God that seconds later the trap Sherlock set works, and all feelings are swept away by sheer adrenaline. They're chasing a taxi containing a serial killer (clever!), and even then John's presence behind him warms Sherlock's chest. (And it shouldn't. It's not his John, and he'll soon be gone.) Sherlock doesn't want to give that up, not even for a serial killer, and he prompts John when it looks like he'll slow them down so much that they'll lose their prey. He doesn't just hasten, leaving him behind if necessary. Even when John almost goes the wrong way. He calls to him, to ensure he's followed. John will be the ruin of him, won't he?

But then his carefully constructed trap fails, and Sherlock should be disappointed. Upset. But John is giggling, and the sleuth sees suddenly how ridiculous that was and chuckles with him. He's laughing with someone, and how long ago was the last time it happened? He has missed a serial killer, but he's utterly happy. The unexpected warmth in his chest stays with him until they reach Baker Street, still laughing about it. Together.

The happiness mixes with pride once Angelo comes to prove his point, bringing back John's forgotten cane. The point wasn't just about the psychosomatic nature of the ailment – even John's incompetent shrink got that, after all. No, the point is that a shot of adrenaline is all John needs to get rid of the blasted thing. Well, life with Sherlock will provide regular doses of adrenaline. Maybe that will be enough to persuade John to stay on the long run. It would be a win win situation. John (his John? The question is still pending according to stubborn teen!Sherlock, though his rational side leans towards not) stays healthy. Sherlock gains a companion. (No matter what he says, he does get lonely sometimes.)

But then everything crumbles around him. Lestrade is here, _with company_ , and if having them messing everything about wasn't bad enough, there's the excuse he used to avoid being reported (not that Sherlock seriously would). Drugs bust. It twists Sherlock's stomach. John refused his own sister's help because she's an alcoholic (well, not only that maybe). He won't stand sharing a flat with a junkie. Maybe not even an ex-junkie. Not sticking around to see if Sherlock relapses into it, surely. Sherlock had just found someone whose presence he enjoyed, and Lestrade made him lose it. He _hates_ the man.

It doesn't help that John defends him so hotly and immediately. Having to break John's idea of him, lose all the praise and see the shock first, the denial – because Sherlock can't be that much of a failure – and later, inevitably, the disappointment and contempt goes against every fibre of Sherlock's being. He wants to keep John. But he can't lie to him. Not that Lestrade would let him do so.

If he's angry – no, furious – with the whole crew invading his home to destroy his life, it's the least they can expect. He's behaving, if anything. Because there's still a serial killer at large, and now that John will leave the Work will be – again – the only thing in his life that gives it any meaning. Well, he's used to it, isn't he? It'll all be fine in the end.

In a last ditch attempt to persuade John to stay, he claims loudly that he's clean. Which is true. He doesn't even smoke, for Christ's sake! (The language gets edited leaving his mind, of course. Mummy brought her sons up well...for all that she had a short time to do so.) Maybe it will be enough for John. Yes, he's taken drugs. He's not, currently, nor he plans to. John won't have to deal with that version of him. If his flatmate believes that, he might even stick around.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

John can't believe what he's heard. Sherlock's too brilliant – too great – to be a junkie, surely. Why would he debase himself so? But the detective has confirmed it for him, though not in so many words. There is no misunderstanding him. It scares him for a moment, because what if Sherlock is his Sherlock _and_ a junkie, too? Can he help him? He didn't feel strong enough to help Harry overcome her addiction. Can he save this wonderful man from himself?

A moment later, Sherlock says sharply that his fondness for drugs is a thing of days past, and John breathes easier, even while he feels mildly guilty about his own utter relief at not having to deal with this. So Sherlock has made mistakes in his past – pretty spectacular mistakes, at that. What matters is that he's gotten better. And really, that's no excuse to bully him now. (After how long? Who knows.)

Because that's what it's happening. Anderson, Donovan, the whole lot of them – they're snooping and judging and sneering at him. Volunteers, indeed. It's not surprising that Sherlock is upset. Anderson accuses him of being the murderer, for God's sake. How idiotic can the man get? John feels a rush of protectiveness towards his flatmate, but quells it. The last thing Sherlock needs now is someone else yet acting like he should have a minder, or claiming that role.

When Sherlock claims to be a sociopath, a quote from George Martin flashes through John's mind. “Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you.” So sociopath is the label armoured himself with to protect himself from all the 'psycho' people hurled at him. But is it even true, he wonders?

Then Sherlock wonders about why a woman would think about her stillborn in her final moments, and John tries to be helpful. Maybe that had some bearing on how she was persuaded to suicide. But Sherlock apparently doesn't get why that would upset her fourteen years later. He stares at Sherlock incredulously, like the rest of them. The detective asks him, “Not good?” and John can only confirm it for him. “Bit not good, yeah.” Fine, so sociopath or not, at the very least his overly brilliant flatmate has the emotional awareness of a brick wall. John is starting to see what his role as Sherlock's assistant could be in the long run.

Sherlock looks at him with an intensity that startles John (he shouldn't like that; he should be thinking about the case), and asking about his last words. But apparently he's too pedestrian, because his dying words don't satisfy Sherlock.

“Oh, use your imagination!” the detective prompts irritatedly.

“I don't need too,” John reminds him quietly. Sherlock doesn't apologize – not in so many words – but he pauses and blinks and shifts his feet, and even if John doesn't know him much he knows that pausing tornado Sherlock mid-investigation is momentous indeed.

The following moments only confirm that, as Sherlock grows more and more agitated, pacing and shouting and requiring people to stop *breathing*. It worries John a bit, but he doesn't want to be distracting. Sherlock needs to be at ease to be brilliant, clearly, and all the bedlam in his home can't help. And if he manages to bully Anderson back a bit in the process, John smiles and cheers him on in his mind.

Then, finally, Sherlock figures it out, and he lights up. Literally. He's still on the agitated side, and he insults them all like it's a sport and he's aiming for the gold medal, but John doesn't have it in him to be angry. He demands explanations, though. He wants to understand what makes him so enthusiastic (fine, so the victim was quite clever). Sherlock does explain it for them. They have the way to locate the phone, which the murderer has.

The case is coming to a close, and even if he doesn't show it, John is infected by the enthusiasm and adrenaline. Which will go nowhere, the police will take care of their murderer once they do find it, but telling himself doesn't help. And really, Lestrade complaining that they'd have a place and not a name? Sherlock will soon have found him a serial killer whose existence the inspector didn't even suspect. He could try being grateful.

But then things suddenly make no sense. John points it out quietly to his flatmate. “Sherlock...It's here. It's in two two one Baker Street.” Lestrade thinks they simply missed the phone, and it would be reasonable – no matter Sherlock's outrage at the idea of himself missing anything – if only they didn't have evidence to the contrary. “Anyway, we texted him and he called back,” John remarks. The murderer certainly had the phone then; how did he plant it in their home after that? It's a scary idea.

Sherlock is still thinking out loud, trying to figure it out, and John would love to have answers for him, but he has none. Then the detective is leaving, suddenly, and he seems as if he's forgotten everything about the people present. Forgotten about the case, even, and that's what scares John. He doesn't know Sherlock, not properly, but he's sure that he doesn't simply get distracted from the hunt. He doesn't just nonchalantly 'pop down' because he remembered that they need jam for tomorrow's breakfast. Not when they need to figure out the truth so desperately. If Sherlock doesn't, after all, who will? So John asks, “Sherlock, you okay?”

“What? Yeah, yeah, I – I'm fine,” the sleuth replies, but it doesn't persuade John at all.

He's still evidently absent-minded, and so the doctor tries to help him focus asking, “So, how can the phone be here?”

It doesn't seem to work. Sherlock leaves for a bit of fresh air, or so he claims. John doesn't like the sound of this at all, and he frowns. Is Sherlock feeling short of breath? The symptom can mean a number of things. At least some of them his flatmate decidedly shouldn't face alone. What if he passes out? John's the doctor. He should really tag along. But the sleuth insists that he's fine, and he won't like John being clingy if it's really nothing. He doesn't look like the man who might enjoy others mother henning him.

Fine. John will let him go. (Why the hell has Sherlock taken a cab? Where does he need to go so urgently?) The doctor will call him later, he decides. Just to check he is alright as he claims. Running from the chance to catch a serial killer? John has his doubts about Sherlock's condition, even knowing him as little as he does. Until then, they still have a phone to find.

He does the most obvious thing – he calls it, and it rings, so it's not here after all. Nobody hears it. John tries to check the gps again, but the policemen don't seem to be interested in it anymore and leave. Don't they trust Sherlock's deductions? He's their consultant. And what he said before makes sense. No matter how odd his behaviour is (and how could John have answers for the inspector? He doesn't know Sherlock yet, though he's ensnared by him). John wonders loudly, “So why do you put up with him?” If you don't trust him, nor like him, and believe he'll disappoint you goes unsaid. But it's a riddle, isn't it?

“Because I'm desperate, that's why. And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one,” is the inspector's parting shot. Well, that's stupid. Sherlock is a peculiar man, an odd man, but John is pretty sure that he is a good man already, too. Despite having annoying habits (especially this disappearing act of his). But he's done what John's therapist couldn't, he's gotten rid of John's cane for him, if for a time (the thing is lying around, and John takes it – best not to forget it, he fears he'll need it soon) and the least John can do is be properly grateful – and believe in him. Sherlock didn't exactly need an assistant – John has done nothing much – but he's involved John, and in so doing he's briefly healed him, a complete stranger, and people still doubt him. It's unfair.

Then the computer beeps, commandeering John's attention and showing how the blasted phone – their victim's phone – has moved from 221B, and is still moving. For a moment, John experiences a moment of abrupt clarity where he understands absolutely everything, all connects, much like it does for Sherlock, he suspects. And what he sees terrifies him. The taxi they've chased before. The taxi that was down 221B – hadn't Mrs. Hudson mentioned it? The taxi _Sherlock took_. Who can hunt in the midst of a crowd? Whom do we automatically trust? The cabbie. There's a bloody serial killer cabbie in London and Sherlock – aware of it or not (would he have followed him if he had figured it out?) – is with him.

The policemen have all gone away, so what can John do? He can't leave Sherlock to face a murderer on his own. He doesn't abandon a comrade to be killed. He takes the computer and runs down, searching for a cab of his own. If he'd figured it out sooner he could have said, “Follow that car,” like in a movie. He'll have to give the cabbie instructions progressively. The serial killer won't murder without stopping first, will he? They're safe as long as the dot keeps moving. Once again, John's cane lays forgotten.

Finally, they arrive at destination. Roland-Kerr college, as the pc helpfully informs John. But it refuses to do what John needs him to do – locate his bloody flatmate (and his wannabe murderer). There's nothing more than the address – the one they've arrived to now. Only that there are two buildings, goddamn it! Where is Sherlock? Now, if Sherlock was _his_ Sherlock, and the fairytales were true (of course they aren't – but it'd be so useful), John could have a telepathic connection with him and just ask him. But now there's no time to dillydally. Now John needs to find him. Whether it is his Sherlock or not doesn't matter – the detective's brilliance can't be allowed to disappear from this world. It'd be a mortal sin. John picks a building at random and races into it, calling the name of his soulmate.

Then finally John sees him, through the window, and it figures that John's chosen the wrong building, he's always had the rottenest luck. He's holding something and facing their serial killer and what if he's talked into suicide too? John can't let that happen. It doesn't matter whether this unique man is his Sherlock or someone else's. John won't stand by and look while he offs himself. He calls to him with all his soul. “Sherlock!” _Don't, please,_ he wants to continue.

But it's not enough. John's not heard. He's too far. He can't do anything. Well, that's not entirely true, is it? He has his gun. If he can't save Sherlock, if he has to look on his death, he bloody well can avenge him. And maybe, just maybe...

When the gunshot rings, Sherlock is startled. He drops the poison. And he doesn't seem interested in retrieving it to kill himself. The serial killer's persuasion skills don't run that deep, thank God. Sherlock is safe. Across from him, John lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. This marvellous whatever he has with the consulting detective won't be cut short just yet.

 

Sherlock is not in shock. Why would anyone think that he should be? Because someone just got killed before his eyes? Ridiculous. The dead man was a serial killer. It's not like he's just lost a friend (not that he has one to lose, but still – you get the point). Or a family member (not that losing Mycroft would be a shock, he tells himself; more of a liberation).

The orange blanket is hideous and the way it rustles against him gives Sherlock the shivers and he wants to get rid of it. But Lestrade is coaxing him to keep it on, so he gives in. The man has just lost the chance to arrest a serial killer – through his own idiocy, of course, nobody was stopping him to realize things at the same time Sherlock had. Still, antagonizing him now is useless. Not when Sherlock wants information from him. The detective limits himself to rolling his eyes. “So, the shooter. No sign?” he queries.

Someone has just been killed before his very eyes. He's not in shock, of course not. But he wants to _solve this_. He didn't get to beat the cabbie at his own game and he's lost his only lead on someone who sponsors serial killers and someone thought he could kill with Sherlock right there and get away scot free. Of course he wants to solve this case.

Lestrade is being his usual, blind, unhelpful self, saying that they have nothing to go on. The sleuth levels him with a look. “Oh, I wouldn't say that,” he bits back. Why is everyone but him blind deaf and dimwitted? It's so disappointing, even when he knows to expect it.

Lestrade takes the bait, of course he does, even if he rolls his eyes at Sherlock's attitude, and asks for everything the sleuth can tell him.

The detective starts automatically deducing, lightning quick as always. Halfway through his exposition, Sherlock notices his flatmate – _John_ – at the edge of the crime scene-keep out sign. It's an epiphany. John is here, and he fits the profile Sherlock has been sketching so very much that it would be absurd for two such people to be around the same time in the same area. Sherlock's voice trails off.

John has done this for him, but it's absurd, isn't it? The doctor might like 221B Baker Street a lot, but is it really enough to kill for him? To protect him? Only he clearly has. Sherlock's not used to people wanting to safeguard him, beyond Mycroft, who has to do it or fail at his self-imposed mission. But while his brother's attempts to take care of him irk him, John's act warms his unacknowledged heart. John didn't have to, but he chose to, and that makes all the difference in the world. John wants to keep him around. It's unprecedented. And Sherlock yearns for him to stay, too, and hence he isn't going to rat him out to Lestrade. Obviously.

“Ignore all of that. It's just the, er, the shock talking,” he says. Not his more smooth lie, but he's still reeling – confused – from the discovery of John's care for him. He beelines towards his flatmate. They need to discuss things. John has to explain what possessed him to decide defending Sherlock was a good idea.

“I just need to talk about the – the rent,” he tells the baffled Lestrade. Still stumbling over his words. Of course the inspector protests. This is not the usual, case-driven, masterful Sherlock. But maybe it's just that – beyond the bloody orange blanket he now uses as evidence – to convince the DI that Sherlock _is_ in shock (and maybe he is, a bit) and should be allowed to go.

John is pretending to be utterly ordinary, when he's anything but. Sherlock is not about to let him do that. A honest compliment, “Good shot,” and then he's talking of removing powder burns and making his flatmate nervous in the process. Right, maybe they're not exactly entirely out of earshot of the police. But nobody observes; and nobody pays attention to what happens around them.

“Are you all right?” he queries, looking at John intently. Is John only reasonably nervous or upset? Has what he's done – for Sherlock – caused _him_ to go into shock, maybe? He _did_ kill a man. It would make sense if he was highly perturbed. Yes, he was a soldier. But nobody _ordered_ him to kill Hope.

But apparently John is justifying his actions to himself enough not to see it as murder (not that Sherlock sees it as such; it was done to save him) and will rest easy tonight. The serial killer moral failings are enough to deserve it, though John is particularly inarticulate about it ( _not very nice? Oh, John._ )

Until the doctor says, “And frankly a bloody awful cabbie,” and Sherlock can't help himself. He chuckles, then piles it on with the joke, and John starts giggling. They're laughing together once again, and it's simply delightful. Sherlock doesn't want this to ever stop, but apparently John has objections because of their surroundings. Crime scenes are not the place to laugh. Whoever decided that?

Sherlock leads them away, to comply with his flatmate's ideas of propriety. He usually simply disregards such silly preconceptions, but he'll make an exception for John. They're so happy together, there's no reason to purposefully irk him. When John apologizes for their giggling to sergeant Donovan, blaming it all on nerves, Sherlock says sorry to her too.

He apologized. To Donovan. And he let her think that crime scenes – or at least crimes happening in his presence – made him nervous. He hopes that John realizes how huge a concession he's given to him. (And yes, Sherlock implied the same to Lestrade claiming shock, but the DI doesn't hate his guts.)

Not to mention that John is implying that crime scenes might make him nervous – he wasn't present at the murder (not that Donovan knows), and if that makes the sergeant object even more to his presence at the next crime scene Sherlock will have to put her in her place. He most surely will ensure that John keeps following him on cases.

But John's still talking, reproaching in fact, “You were gonna take that damned pill, weren't you?”

Sherlock should reply that's it's not his business, only caring for him enough to kill for him clearly John made it his business, so the detective fibs unashamedly, “Course I wasn't. Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up.”

Sadly, John sees right through him. “No you didn't. It's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever.”

“Why would I do that?” Sherlock challenges.

“Because you're an idiot. And a bit selfish. Someone out there is waiting to meet you. You'd be stealing away their happiness, too. You might not be searching, but you never know. You still might meet him, or her,” John comments.

Sherlock almost smiled at the start, but John's following words irk him. He shows his disappointment. “I didn't peg you as a hypocrite, John. Need I remind you that you invaded Afghanistan, risking your life?”

“Ah, but it's different for me. I was so sure that I'd never find her. And I was right about that.” Despite the sad statement, John manages a soft smile.

 _So John had a female alien name. And he lost her since_ , Sherlock deduces, but for once he keeps it to himself. It's good that John can smile about it. He doesn't want to renew the hurt. _Not my John?_ Teen Sherlock queries dejectedly from his exile. _It can't be_.

“Not so different. I don't search because finding him would be a useless endeavour.” He knows that he's wilfully misleading John. Letting him think that Sherlock's soulmate is already dead, too. But the lie won't ever be discovered, because it's partly true. Nobody likes Sherlock, with maybe the exception of this John (who is evidently – now – not his soulmate). The sleuth won't ever find the John who completes him. Who loves him. It's fine. That would only distract him from the Work. And he has now someone who cares for him, if a bit. That's more than Sherlock ever expected.

“But let's not dwell on that. Dinner?” the sleuth proposes.

“Starving,” John agrees heartily.His easy acceptance warms Sherlock's long-hushed heart. Not even Mycroft's arrival can entirely kill his good mood, though it _does_ dampen it considerably.

John points his brother out to him, thinking it may constitute a threat instead of a mere annoyance. Mycroft and he banter a bit, with the eldest affecting to be reasonable and polite and 'on his side' (as if that'd ever happen). Then his brother utters something he really should know better than say. “Mummy would be so upset by this petty feud between us if she could see it.”

“Don't you dare drag her into this, Mycroft. One, she's dead, and two, if she wasn't she wouldn't agree with your way of doing things, I'm sure,” Sherlock hisses venomously, barely keeping himself from attacking him.

Which reveals to John their kinship, and his flatmate cutting in the conversation manages to calm down the rage in Sherlock's soul instantly. He can limit himself to disparaging comments about his brother. John seems like he would like to comment, “Are the two of you for real?” but he keeps it to himself. (He does call Mycroft a criminal mastermind to his face. Sherlock is taken by a deep cheerfulness he hasn't felt in a while...one he only seems to find around John.)

Then Mycroft is saying goodbye, and they're free to get to that dinner. Chinese. On the way, Sherlock can't stop himself from smiling. He's just happy. No reason. John notices it, and he questions it, and Sherlock lies unashamedly. “Moriarty,” he says.

It's a new puzzle. A mystery. Who in their right mind would sponsor a serial killer? (Then again, in their right mind is an assumption; but mad people should be met with interdiction and not have the funds to sponsor anyone). It's something Sherlock now _should_ be excited over.

Or he should be coming down from the case high and start feeling the well-known emptiness he used to fight with drugs. Instead he's still pleasantly buzzing, and downright happy. John is the only new variable, so in some way must be his doing. Who knew that company could have this effect. It used to only irk Sherlock outright. Maybe it's like this always for other people? Is this why they search each other's presence in such a mindless fashion?

At least John is smiling too. He enjoys Sherlock's companionship. Usually people despise him as soon as he opens his mouth. John willingly saved him. What possessed him? That needs careful enquiry. Not tonight though, he reconsiders against his earlier decision. Tonight he enjoys himself.

When they're brought the fortune cookies, John grins at him. “You claimed that you can predict them. Or almost. So go on, genius. Prognosticate.”

“Happiness might be under your nose,”Sherlock drawls. He's confessing, under the guise of foretelling. John won't understand it, which is fine. Perfect, actually. Because letting him know the power he apparently has over Sherlock's moods is risky at the very least, and not the kind of danger the sleuth welcomes.

He then opens his cookie. It says, “The best way to predict the future is to create it,” instead. Which doesn't seem like a bad suggestion, either. But what kind of future should he aim for?

“So? Did you get it?” John queries excitedly.

“Almost,” the detective replies, pocketing his slip without showing it.

“Do mine, then,” the doctor goads with another grin.

“Your smile lights up someone else's day,” the detective utters daringly. It can't be just him, either. John's smile is infectious.

His flatmate opens his cookie. “Wish it was something so nice,” he remarks.

“Why? What does it say?”

“It may be difficult, but it will be worth it in the end,”John reads aloud. “Not that I doubt it, you know. That's generally true.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. Sherlock's predictions and the cookies' text are taken from the virtual fortune cookies on horoscope. com


	6. Chapter 6

 

John is away. On errands. Which is kind of him, but Sherlock almost complained when his flatmate got out. Eating is overestimated anyway, it's not like Sherlock will thank him for making sure there's not human meat in the fridge. Or vegetables. Who needs vegetables?

No, what Sherlock needs is continuing an experiment in which he's the test subject, for a change. He needs to determine if John's company is really so powerful as to make him happy on its own. Was it really just his flatmate's presence the cause of that bubbling happiness the other day? Or is it the interaction between whatever chemicals are released in the brain by John's companionship and the adrenaline and stimulation caused by the case that engendered that state of bliss he so dearly hopes that he will attain again? (He's in danger of getting hooked again; and then John will go away – he will soon, naturally – and Sherlock will have to go cold turkey from that. He suspects it won't be pleasant at all. Nor easy.) 

And now there isn't even any John. And Sherlock can't protest against it without being creepy and hence making John's final departure that much closer. Thank God that he has a case to distract him from his absence. He hasn't mentioned it to John, or his friend wouldn't have abandoned him – or so Sherlock wants to believe. He's trying to keep separate John and cases for a while, and see how they affect him as independent variables.

He's taken a case from a private client without letting John know – telling him he refused them, even – to obtain that. Policemen are quite obvious and John would have noticed them coming in to consult him, even if it wasn't Lestrade, which he already knows. This matter of the Jaria diamond should be easy enough that he can do it in his spare time without his flatmate being any the wiser.

So when the 'mysterious' man with a bloody scimitar comes in, Sherlock is ready for him. He would tell him that he knows exactly his identity, hence all these scarves are somehow superfluous, but his enemy is not here for chitchat. Which is fine, actually. Sherlock is quite in need of a little exercise. The fact that this man is quite daft, falling for the oldest trick of them all, is quite disappointing. Then again, the case wasn't hard in itself. At most a four. Despite hating owing Mycroft favours, Sherlock texts the client to let them know the case is solved, and his brother to come collect the garbage. It won't do for John to come back and find the stranger in the sitting room.        

When John does come back, Sherlock is relaxing in his armchair with a book and pretending that he hasn't done anything else all morning. Keeping the two aspects of his life utterly separate. He's indignant hearing John hasn't done the shopping not because he's interested any in obtaining ordinary things like food and detergents, but because if John's going to lie to him he can at least do a bare minimum to sustain his lie. Wherever he'd gone, he could have bought something – maybe only the milk – afterwards as a cover story.

Only John hasn't lied to him. He's tried to buy what they need...and then had a row with the chip-and-pin machine. Sherlock echoes that, because for all his long experience in arguing with people he can't figure out how you do that with an inanimate object. It won't become uncomfortable by having its sordid details deduced out loud.  

John, somehow embarrassed and clearly hating it, asks for money, and the sleuth nonchalantly offers his card. Money is of no consequence. Especially if it allows him to keep John near until he's figured out this new, strange happiness and if he can attain it somehow without his flatmate's presence (he doesn't want to go back to being _dependent_ ). He barely conceals a smile. John should look like an idiot to him, and instead the idea of him shouting at the machine is almost...cute to imagine. (Sherlock used to abhor cute; what's happening to him?)

Of course, the suggestion _Sherlock_ might do the shopping is entirely ridiculous, not deserving a reply. Then again, John is under the impression the sleuth has not moved at all today and Sherlock isn't going to disabuse him. John enquires about the just solved case, and Sherlock denies any interest in it and says he's sent them a text, both of which are now true. Then John notices the damage from his fight on the table and, luckily for Sherlock, fails to deduce his cause. He's very good-natured about it, too, not particularly angry, but he does tut once. Sherlock feigns not knowing anything about it almost perfectly. Well, he really is innocent of that – it was all his enemy's doing.

Later, Sherlock is checking his email when John comes back again (with the shopping this time). There's a message from Sebastian Wilkes, who's surely as much of a idiotic prick with an excessive sense of his own self-worth now as he was back then in uni. An incident at the bank? Is that how they call embezzlement these days? That's the more likely problem, though of course Sherlock shouldn't assume. But he's not going to work this case anyway. He's on the brink of refusing Seb's pompous request of help when John notices what he's doing.  

And he apparently objects to Sherlock using his things. Even if they're just lying around and John doesn't need them at the moment. It makes no sense. Why should Sherlock go to the bedroom to retrieve his pc when John wasn't even there to use his own? He'll have to make his flatmate see reason.

The most laughable thing, though, is John claiming the pc was password protected. Protected? Since when Northumberland5 counts as protection? Anyone who knew John would have guessed it in under a minute. It's no particular feat of his.

John almost slams the pc closed on his fingers still typing the refusal, and takes it away. Sherlock isn't even annoyed (maybe that will disappoint John) it's not like Sherlock was doing anything particularly enjoyable.  

John's being dull then, talking about his need of a job (still hung up thinking of money, is he?) and Sherlock tunes him out and ponders what to do about Sebastian. He's refusing, of course, but...he might do so in person. If he brings John along he'll at least get the chance to show him off. Demonstrate to Wilkes that, incredible as it sounds even to Sherlock, there's someone in the world that cares about him. It wouldn't be involving John in cases again, ruining his experiment, because he's not going to take it. When Sherlock announces he's going to the bank, John automatically follows. Sherlock's inordinately pleased by that little detail. John might not be his soulmate, but he's definitely his something.  

Sebastian is just as unpleasant as he was back then. Buddy? They've never been buddies, not even when they were younger and far more idiotic. Not to anyone else, but to himself Sherlock can admit he was quite stupid back then...of course he was still eons above people like Wilkes; he'd be even in a coma.

Then, the banker turns to John, and Sherlock introduces him proudly, “This is my friend, John Watson.” This is why they're here. Sherlock has a friend, for the first time in his life (Victor doesn't count). John cares about him. Hell, John has bloody saved his life. They laughed together. Not his soulmate, but his friend, surely?

Sebastian doubts him. Naturally he doubts him. “Friend?” he echoes, disbelieving. Sherlock Freak Holmes?

Before Sherlock can reiterate that, making a bigger fool of himself, John corrects him, “Colleague.” It hurts the detective. Teen Sherlock, from his exile, whines, “What?! John!” ready to cry. That can't be true. Sherlock's colleagues hate him (with maybe the exception of Lestrade). John isn't implying that he hates the sleuth, is he? He cares for him. Sherlock has the evidence to back this up.

Then what? Is he ashamed of being associated with Sherlock? 'Colleagues' creates some distance between them, after all. It might be. No, it surely is. It makes sense. Sherlock should have known and not opened his fucking mouth.

“Right, right,” Wilkes agrees, still clearly wondering how Sherlock managed to land himself a coworker but satisfied that chimeric things like Sherlock's friends are still off the table. He plays the gracious host, even, and as always when he's uncomfortable or angry, the detective automatically deduces. (And no, he's not fishing for compliments from John; though right now they would certainly be welcomed).   

Sebastian though isn't baffled, angry or even uneasy (well, it's not like Sherlock found anything of value to deduce, like Seb being into bestiality – though he wouldn't be surprised if the banker _was_ ). Wilkes declares that he knows what Sherlock's doing, because he used his trick even back in uni.

“It's not a trick,” the sleuth points out quietly. Trick sounds like he's a circus performer. Or a fake. He's neither. Does John know that he's neither? He must know, right? The situation just keeps going worse and worse. Whyever did Sherlock think coming was a good idea?

Sebastian’s still describing Sherlock's “trick,” (and John's agreeing with him – well, saying he's seen Sherlock “do that”, but it feels like he's agreeing with Wilkes' definition of Sherlock's deductions; and it hurts) and finally concludes. Saying, “We hated him,” and calling Sherlock Freak. He should be used to this – long used – but it still wounds him. It's not something that needs to be pointed out, is it? If John agrees with Sebastian once again, Sherlock might scream. Luckily he doesn't talk.

In a feeble attempt to defend himself (before John starts to think Sherlock should be hated, too – Teen Sherlock is frankly terrified of the prospect) the sleuth remarks, still very quietly, “I simply observed.” Then and now. It's not his fault that everyone but Mycroft is blind. And people shouldn't do things they're scared to admit. If they didn't, Sherlock's deductions wouldn't be so angrily received all the time – he thinks.

Sebastian asks how Sherlock could know what he's deduced, and Sherlock would even like to answer him. Maybe that'd get another “amazing” from John. He never gets the chance though. Wilkes talks all over him for the longest time, horribly smug, and when Sherlock has the chance to answer him he's changed opinion.

If he does explain, he'll only get, “That simple then?” or maybe another, “I knew it was your trick,” self-satisfied declaration from Sebastian. And if John agrees with him once again – maybe even explicitly – about the nature of the detective's powers Sherlock doesn't think he'll be able to take it without making a bigger fool of himself. Yelling, maybe. Anything to stop feeling like a nineteen year old hated by the whole world. (Sebastian shouldn't have that power over him; but he's successful, as far as normal people are, and Teen Sherlock is desperate at the idea that John should start comparing him and somehow find him wanting...and move his admiration somewhere else).

So the sleuth claims having chatted with the secretary, which at least throws John for a loop because he knows Sherlock hasn't, and he's left wondering what Sherlock is aiming at like this. Nothing more than not offering the edge to more teasing, but the doctor doesn't have to know.

Sebastian still laughs – at him – without humour at all. Sherlock smiles back in a way that it's more a baring of teeth.

But then Wilkes becomes all business-like, discussing the case, and even promising something “really interesting”. Sherlock hopes he's right, because while until a short time ago he was certain he'd refuse it anyway, now he's changed idea completely. Fuck his experiment. He wants the easy, utter happiness he's already experienced and he wants it _now_ , and if involving John in a case is the recipe that guarantees it, still unstudied variables notwithstanding (John on his own provides him with nothing more than a certain shade of unusual contentment, according to current data anyway), involve John in a case he shall. Of course, after having pretended to refuse the other cases, he'll need something good to justify taking this one (he's surely not doing it out of friendship). Good thing that the case does indeed have some curious points. He takes it, eager for the mix of work and John to work his magic. They can't wash away his current feelings soon enough.

 

John can't believe what's happening. They're being hired by Sherlock's...acquaintance (definitely not friend – does Sherlock only know gits?). Who should know that Sherlock is a genius, but sure as hell doesn't behave like he should when asking for help. Who the hell asks for help prefacing it with 'we hated him'?

Sebastian really thinks that as long as he pays (and he does pay handsomely) he can behave however the fuck he wants, does he? John hitches to tell him off, but that's not his place. For one, he's just along for the ride, not the certified genius Sebastian wants. He's shielded himself behind 'colleague' because friend did not give him an excuse to actually be there. Normal people (not that Sherlock is normal, but John has to be for the both of them) don't just drag along friends to investigations. Both bankers and detectives should have a degree of confidentiality in their work, after all.

So he's Sherlock's colleague even if his own brand of knowledge will with all probability not be called upon during this case. Then again, you never know. He just hopes he won't have to patch Sherlock up. For the moment, he's the man's secretary though – sort of. Because the sleuth actually scoffed at the mention of a recompense, and John suddenly remembers Donovan's “he's not paid; he gets off on it,” and really, Wilkes should at least pay up for being a dick. And maybe Sherlock can subsist on adrenaline and Angelo's free meals every three days or so, but John can't. There are bills piling up at home, which John can't cover entirely – hell, he can't even cover his own half of these, he needs a job badly – and he has the feeling the detective will just ignore these until they cut them out.

He's hesitant, though. He's not used to being someone's assistant (not that he had problems actually helping when he feels that he can indeed be useful) and much more, he's not used to such figures. He's mildly terrified that he could lose the check, even if he's never been that forgetful.

He looks at it once again and shakes his head in disbelief. That's the advance. More than three times his army pension. At least as much coming after Sherlock solves the case (which he definitely will). Sherlock's partiality for silk sheets (which he knows because of his flatmate's tendency to consider them perfectly adequate clothing in the morning) is now explained. John will still feel inadequate about borrowing money from Sherlock, but now slightly less awkward. The sleuth can definitely afford it.

In the meantime, Sherlock is dancing. Or playing hide-and-seek, ducking randomly, John isn't sure. He's a sight, though. It makes John smile. His unfathomable, fascinating flatmate. (Not soulmate, that's sorta cleared – it would be “impossible” for Sherlock to find his soulmate. Still, a tiny part of John sighs, “But...* Sherlock *!” in disappointment. )

That the detective has already lost his own is so sad. No one should be made to feel that lonely, but it happens all too often. Not this young, though. Maybe Sherlock's soulmate was a soldier too? He's just glad that it isn't anyone John failed to save – he'd have noticed if someone had his same name. Actually, maybe John can...no, no, don't even finish that thought. Look how Harry ended after faking things with a random Clara. John will * not * let himself pretend this is his Sherlock, and he'll offer his fond support without even hinting that they could – hasn't Sherlock already rejected him anyway? He needs to get his mind out of the gutter. Like, yesterday. Certainly before Sherlock's attention switches to him and he reads such thoughts out of him.

When the detective is satisfied, and leads him away, John doesn't even try to resist the temptation.  His friend's deductions are a show, one which is quickly becoming his favourite one (nothing really compares, and John shouldn't be enticed to sing Sinead O' Connor to the sleuth) and he's just been denied the latest episode. He won't stand for it. So he declares the truth. “You didn't ask his secretary, you said that just to irritate him.” A noble aim, considering how annoying Sebastian is, but now they're alone.                  

Still, Sherlock smiles but refuses to reply. It is a nice smile indeed, but that won't do. “How did you know?” John queries. He's not disappointed. The truth is at the same time simple and clever. Which serves only to point out how bloody brilliant Sherlock is, looking for what no one else thinks might have any significance and unearthing what it hides. It doesn't matter if he solves a case with it, puts someone in his place, or what else. It never loses his charm for John. Actually, he's too much charmed maybe. He needs to find himself a date. That'll distract him.

And Sherlock hasn't just deduced Sebastian, the git. Less than ten minutes and he already knows that this message (because it is a message, obviously, not sheer vandalism) is intended for one specific person out of the three hundred working there. From pillars (and screens). How has John ever been blessed enough to be by this genius' side and be private to his brilliance? Because that's privilege, that's what it is. John must have been a saint in his past life to deserve this.

The taxi ride is quick and Sherlock is quiet, so John is left to his own thoughts. So, of course, he starts wondering about how they'll manage to make the banker spit up what he knows. There's no sending a message if you aren't sure that the receiver can understand it. Will Sherlock trick the man into revealing it? How?  He hopes that he can be useful somewhat. He'd hate being Sherlock's useless shadow. (The detective will not want him around anymore if his only role is saying, “Amazing”. John would hate to have to give up cases now.)

When they arrive at Van Coon's house John is ready for a stake-out. It might be boring to the detective, but if it's half as lovely (though hopefully less awkward) as that night at Angelo's, John is all for repeating the experience.

Instead, there's no need. On the floor above their banker, there's someone who has just moved in. Seeing Sherlock charming her into opening the door, John has to restrain himself from giggling. He's perfect in the role of clumsy, awkward new neighbour. John wouldn't be able to pretend so brazenly. The doctor starts to suspect that the scenes lost a great deal when Sherlock didn't pursue that as a career.

(Of course, as a fan of the series Hustle, John realizes too that with his acting prowess Sherlock might have done things that would pit him against policemen too – thank God that swindling people would probably be deemed boring).   

Miss Wintle is less thrilled by letting them have use of her balcony – mostly, she's afraid that they're going to break their neck and how is she going to explain that to the inevitable police – but Sherlock's powers of persuasion are far greater than the poor woman's resistance. John fully empathizes with her. The sleuth is simply impossible to deny, as the doctor knows all too well.

So, the detective is in Van Coon's apartment (after climbing down from one balcony to another – and thank God that the French window on the balcony is unlocked).  John hopes that the banker is out, because otherwise explaining his actions might be quite hard.

He half expects Sherlock to ask him to do the same gymnastics, which would be really quite difficult (John would try anyway, of course), but the sleuth doesn't. So, of course, John goes for the more sensible course of action and buzzes to the door of Van Coon's flat, calling to his friend. And Sherlock ignores him. He's seen the detective enter the flat, so why wouldn't he?

“Sherlock, are you okay?” he queries loudly. He can't help the spike of unease running through him. He quashes it. Sherlock is most likely busy investigating and has forgotten his existence. Figures he would. He doesn't really need John, after all.  He reacts to the ugly feeling holding onto his frustration at his bloody flatmate.  “Yeah, any time you feel like letting me in,” he calls, sarcastically.

When Sherlock does finally open the door, it's because he needs John's help, rather more than the doctor would have expected him to today. Van Coon is inside the apartment, after all. He's not likely to protest their invasion, though, given the bullet hole in his right temple. The gun is on the floor. John's first thought is, of course, suicide. The man was dead inside a locked room. Locked room mysteries – however much Sherlock would like one, he's sure – are the thing of Dickson Carr novels. Not reality.

Sherlock's still rooting between the banker's belongings, and he tries to involve John into it. Which he's grateful for – being involved in an investigation is great – but he'll pass the personal exam of Van Coon's dirty underwear, posh as it is sure to be.

Sherlock still uses him to bounce ideas off, while examining this or that detail of the body, and John really shouldn't feel as proud as he does when the detective tells him, “Oh good. You follow.” John honestly isn't sure he's following entirely, but he's not about to tell him that. He doesn't want to ruin Sherlock's good opinion of him.

Anyway, they've arrived at the conclusion that Van Coon was hiding from someone's threats, which made them go to the trouble of vandalizing the bank. Though Sherlock  seems to have the oddest idea that that someone might be sending him bills. John has to quip, “Well, it wasn't the gas board,”... and just then the police Sherlock has called finally arrive.

Once again, John is very disappointed by the defenders of the law. Sherlock is being actually polite, which is odd for him, and the too-young officer refuses to shake his hands, putting his hands on his hips like an angry adult to a wayward child, and says, “I know who you are; and I'd prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence.” John hates him wholly and instantly at that. That Sherlock wants Lestrade back in charge is natural.

But Lestrade's not coming, because this bloody kid is a DI, actually, and John can't help but wonder however he had such a quick career. Not because of outstanding merits, he bets. Someone powerful's relative? Unless he's worked his way through the ranks à la Jack Harkness, earning the gratefulness of said ranks. John is so irritated that he would put nothing past Dimmock. Sherlock and he share a surprised look at the man's role.

And it irks John that he has to agree with Dimmock. Obvious suicide. But really, what else can it be? Murder apparently. Because there are a million details that Dimmock and John are “choosing” to ignore, according to Sherlock. At least for John, he has not chosen anything. He honestly didn't notice a single thing. Coffee mug handle? Butter on the knife? Who but Sherlock would think to examine such things? But it's true that a left-handed man will not shoot himself on the right temple.

It is a locked room case. Or, well, not exactly locked if the window was open for Van Coon to shoot through it. Still. Sherlock walks Dimmock through it all – the murder, the threats – and finally Dimmock queries, “But if his door was locked from the inside, how did the killer get in?”

Sherlock, putting on his gloves, replies, “Good! You’re finally asking the right questions.  Condescension drips heavy from his tone. And then he leaves. Just like that.  John sends a quick, apologetic look Dimmock's way – because that's what he does – and follows him feeling rather more satisfied than he dares show.

They go back to Sebastian – who's having lunch with some colleagues – and the git asks them to make an appointment with his secretary. Not even the word, “threat,” scares him into caring.            The announcement of a murder, though, is enough to break his composure. He follows them to the toilets – there's no way that he's discussing this with everyone present.  And for once, John is posing the questions. If he's Sherlock's colleague, he needs to act the part. He takes no bull from Sebastian. “We all make enemies,”? He needs answers. “You don't all end up with a bullet through your temple,” he points out sternly.    

Before he can get answer out of the banker, though, Seb receives a text announcing Van Coon's death as a suicide. And even if he knows Sherlock, even if he knows he's a genius, even if he should help them solve a murder, the only comment the bloody prick makes is, “I hired you to do a job, Sherlock. Don't get sidetracked.”

Sidetracked? Sidetracked? They've found a threatened man murdered and Sebastian is worried that they'll get sidetracked? They're solving this bloody case, that he wants it or not! Though John seethes, he doesn't says any of that. He says, instead, “I thought bankers were all supposed to be heartless bastards.” He doesn't need to add, “Not bloody idiots.” Sherlock will hear that anyway.         


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

John needs a job. He's already in debt with Sherlock, for crying out loud. So the result is Sarah. Locum, whatever. He needs the job. And having a cute boss can't hurt. He needs to get back to other things besides working.

Because Sherlock is not his Sherlock, and he can't keep fooling himself. He needs a date. Preferably yesterday. Though he'll have to find an excuse to keep his Name covered even while having sex, or everyone will think that he's cheating on Sherlock and despise him as a result. That won't do. Maybe he can say that his soulmate died and that seeing the blob of it breaks his heart every time? It's a bit underhanded, but what needs must.

So here he is, shooting down all her objections (she thinks the job will be too mundane? He'll need some mundane after dealing with Sherlock on a day-to-day basis). And when she asks if he can do anything else, Three Continents comes to the fore. “I learned the clarinet at school,” and offers her a winning smile. She laughs softly – she's been smiling a lot through all this job interview – and replies that she's looking forward to it. Well, John is looking forward to her too. First date since he's back to England. (That is so happening sometime soon.) And a locked room to solve with Sherlock at the same time. His life is definitely looking up.    

When he gets home, Sherlock welcomes him with, “I said, 'Could you pass me a pen?' ”

Which he has apparently said an hour ago. When John was on his way to Sarah. For some reason, it doesn't surprises John at all. Sherlock is, after all, concentrating on their almost locked room case. John's presence – or the lack of it – is surely a meaningless detail faced with a murderer that can go through locked doors. He still sighs at his own forgettable nature. He tosses Sherlock a pen without looking. His aim has always been good.

He goes to examine the evidence wall Sherlock has put up then. He's not the one who'll figure it out – of course not – but it's interesting. He tries to make small talk in the meantime. And embarrasses himself with the most basic Freudian slip, “She's great.” He doesn't mean to discuss Sarah just yet though – he won't brag about conquests, at least until after he has actually scored – and retires firmly under the neutral pronoun. “It,” he insists. The job. Sherlock gives him an odd look, but then proceeds to show him an article. “Ghostly killer leaves a mystery for the police.” Murdered journalist. Not what John expected.

“He's killed another one,” Sherlock declares.  And off they are. They – well, Sherlock at least surely – are needed at Scotland Yard.

Which – sadly – means they have to deal with Dimmock again. God but the man is thick! John can’t believe what he's about to say, but since the man will deny what's happening and has the gall to be annoyed at them, he puts it into words. “Both men killed by someone who can...walk through solid walls.”

Dimmock scowls, and when Sherlock asks him if he still believes the Van Coon case to be a suicide squirms uncomfortably, but won't reply. Sherlock won't let him squirm his way out of this, though. He sighs at the man's recalcitrant nature. Then the detective forces the inspector to admit that ballistic confirmed Van Coon's gun did not shoot him, and declares, “So this investigation might move a bit quicker if you were to take my word as gospel.” John has to fight down a giggle, and manages to only because Sherlock is absolutely right. When Sherlock requires five minutes in the second victim's flat, and Dimmock agrees to it, John cheers internally in victory.             

It doesn't take him more than five minutes – actually less – to deduce that their murderer is, in Dimmock's words, Spiderman. Or at least a skilled climber. The inspector seems disbelieving still, and John fights the urge to remind him that whatever Sherlock says is indeed gospel. At least it should narrow their suspects considerably. Dimmock should be glad for it.

A moment later, they're back in a cab with a book belonging to the second victim and no Dimmock on their heels. It's just them again, and John shouldn't be that happy for it. They go to West Kensington Library to check a book their new victim borrowed. There happens something that leaves John reeling, and trying to remind himself furiously that Sherlock is not his Sherlock. His heart still beats wildly when he finds more symbols like in the bank and Sherlock, in his enthusiasm, rewards him by lightly kissing his right ear. It does not mean anything. Anything at all.

In fact, they're back to analysing the case, the odd bit of affection completely disregarded – Sherlock didn't justify himself for it. Maybe it's not odd for him. He might be like the Doctor, rather...affectionate in the face of cleverness.  John does his best to concentrate on the case, and if he talks rather more softly than he normally would it's not because he's feeling rather emotional himself. ' Course not. (Not his Sherlock, he reminds himself briskly once again.)

Then they're off again, because, odd as that sounds, Sherlock needs advice (never thought he'd see the day the sleuth admitted that). On painting. So going to the National Gallery might seem a sound idea. Only they aren't going there, but at the back.    

His consultant his one...writer, it's that how the people vandalizing places with their “art” are called? Only he can't give them anything about the symbols, and the paint is hardly going to get them the climbing killer. John can't help but be disappointed, and he's sure Sherlock is too. Sure, Raz promised he'll look into it, but there's no saying he'll get them anything.

Well, to be honest, he does get John something. A bloody ASBO, that is. Because of course when the policemen arrive the two great sods run for it like missiles, leaving John to deal with them (and with the bloody spray can he was holding for Raz in hand, too!). He's not used to running from police. Being told to would have been nice. Because let me tell you, Raz's art (the pig-snouted policeman) didn't amuse the officer much.

So, when he gets home, he's pretty incensed (and for once, he really doesn't have the frisson of the Right Name – even if it's the wrong person). He rants, even knowing Raz won't show up to claim the art or the ASBO – ' course not. All he wants is a bit of sympathy. But of course he doesn't get that. Sherlock has all the empathy of a brick wall, the doctor should know. John is pretty sure that he's being tuned out. Because if Sherlock had heard _a word_ , he wouldn't be sending John back to the bloody Yard.

On another note, the sleuth might get a freak or some other insult from our esteemed police force (Raz wasn't all that wrong) so John resigns himself to it. The case must be solved before more people get killed by Marvel's Venom. He's decided that his opening line at the Yard will be, “Missed you already.”

Nobody laughs at his quip, but at least Dimmock is actually complacent this time. John is still  angry at Sherlock, so when the inspector calls the sleuth an arrogant sod, John's only comment is, “Well, that was mild!” instead of trying to defend his friend. Dimmock gives easily up the evidence John wants, though. The inspector has learned the hard way not to ever discuss Sherlock's words. Lukis' – their second victim's diary is in John's hands, and he can't contain the shiver of excitement. He is now closer to solving the case. Wherever will the clues bring him? He is so following this on his own, instead of bringing it faithfully back to Sherlock. The annoying sleuth could follow his own clues (he was after Van Coon's trail, after all).

They literally bump into each other, following their respective trails, John's nose so deep in Lukis' diary that he doesn't notice the lanky git. And Sherlock starts talking a mile a minute again. John's anger has waned, substituted by the happy excitement of the chase, and he shows his friend the chinese shop Lukis' went to, wondering for a breathless moment if Sherlock will recompense him for the new data like earlier. No kiss this time, so John pretends he wasn't hoping for it (was he hoping for it? Not-his-Sherlock! He's fucked up!) and leads them into the shop.    

A moment later, he's trying to avoid being forced to buy a lucky cat. The thing is ridiculous. And what does it mean, “your wife, she will like!” ? Does John gives off the vibe of a married man?  He's never going to – he'll have to be sneaky enough to snatch some dates, until Sherlock disappears from his life (which he hopes will never happen, to be honest) – he wouldn't be able to lie to a wife, and nobody will stay through the necessary explanations. (Yes, it does say Sherlock. No, it's _really not_ him. I love you, will you have me? No, I'm not giving up cases...Who would stand that?)

Lucky cat is lucky, though, because while he's perusing the merchandise John finds the symbols again (Sherlock doesn't kiss him again – of course, they're in public. And John doesn't even want him to. ) The shop keeper explains, and Sherlock leaves the place with a spring in his step and grinning like a loon. Chinese numbers! 15,1. This is the threat who terrified both Van Coon and Lukis. Code, of course, but codes can be cracked. Sherlock will, John has no doubts. Now they know their criminal is a Chinese climber. There can't be that many in London! They're close to the solution. John is so very happy. For a moment, being photographed twice in a day by a Chinese-looking tourist (she looks exactly the same, but she's probably not) spooks John, mind full of Chinese criminals, a bit, but she disappears suddenly and he dismisses it. No need to get paranoid. _Need_ to keep up with Sherlock and ensure he doesn't try to engage a murderer alone (again).

They end up staking out the Lucky Cat shop, once again in a restaurant. At least nobody thinks it's a date this time. They're left in peace, to enjoy the meal and discuss the case. Sherlock has already worked it all out. Both victims were smugglers and one stole something, hence why while in doubt the Triad (the Chinese mafia is the Triad, right?) offed them both, just to be sure. It's so nice, this. They should do it more often. ...Maybe trying to end one meal at the chosen restaurant, though. A moment later, Sherlock is leaving with a random question about rain, of all things. John can only pay up and regret leaving his plate full. They cook rather well here – he'll have to remember that. But, you know – wouldn't want to lose Sherlock's trail. Chances are that he'd try to get himself killed.

Sherlock breaks in someone's house – again. And once again, John can't follow and he's left ringing the bell. “Do you think maybe you could let me in this time?” he calls.

Apparently not. John insists, shouting through the letterbox, “Can you not keep doing this, please?” He doesn't want to be excluded unless there's a dead body for him to examine. He might not be able to deduce things like Sherlock, but he's found clues twice already, and he could continue if only Sherlock let him in.

The sleuth answers something, but John doesn't get it. Figures that Sherlock wouldn't even bother making himself heard. It's not like he's looking forward to his input. It's beyond frustrating. It makes John feel particularly useless. He gives up on communicating too, admitting the ugly truth. “I'm wasting my breath.” And yet, he calls again, “Any time you want to include me.”  

His  frustrated anger at being deemed useless (while Sherlock is having all sorts of fun snooping around without him, undoubtedly,)  makes him growl, “No, I'm Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone because no-one else can compete with my massive intellect!”

He's being sarcastic but the problem is that it's true. That's why the sleuth doesn't care for his company. Why he's forever left behind. The detective doesn't need him. John needs him. A bit. He feels alive when he's with Sherlock – simple as that. And he doesn't want the sleuth to decide that rather than excluding him at times it's more practical not to involve him at all. He wants the cases. He wants the company. He wants everything (what?).  

When finally Sherlock opens the door, John glares at him. They (they? Really?) are searching for the house's owner, starting with the National Antiquities Museum. Or so the detective says. Well, croaks. “Are you getting a cold?” John queries. The sleuth claims to be fine, of course, but John vows to check his throat later on. His friend is still coughing. He isn’t coming down with something, is he? And why is John even worrying about him? The detective surely doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t care about John, and it would be only right to reciprocate him. Yet, John can’t help it. He does care about Sherlock. Now, off to the museum on the sleuth's wake. (As always).     

It's becoming dangerous. Sherlock would have noticed the assassin still inside the house from the start if he wasn't so distracted. It's since Teen Sherlock has – once again, and deplorably – hijacked the transport and brushed a kiss against John's ear (thank God John hasn't mentioned it yet) that the fleeting sensation is stuck on repeat inside his head at random times. He'll be deducing, and then _feel it_ all over again. His minds rebelliously derails all on its own, and it's almost costed him his life. Dead because he was thinking about a kiss with a homonym. It doesn't get much more shameful than this. He needs to concentrate, damn it!

Now, Soo Lin Yao. He interrogates the besotted idiot who left her that message.  Another besotted idiot, that is, beside himself. (He hopes he's not as bad as this youngling. The woman might – theoretically – have disappeared to run from him, and her involvement with the smuggling ring be a secondary job. John might move out if Teen Sherlock doesn't behave. Scary line of thought.)  Finding the usual threat graffitied is actually a comfort. They're still on the right track.

They need to find Soo Lin Yao. “If she's still alive,” John points out. Really, no need to be so negative. Before he can reproach him –  luckily for them –  his acquaintance (not friend, of course – he has no friends, since John denied it) Raz comes up to them outside the museum, with beautiful news. He's found something. Just what they need.                                        

John's grumbling something about his ASBO still. As if Raz would ever consider willingly dealing with policemen – this is not the moment to worry about it; this is when they (hopefully) solve the case. “Forget about your court date,” Sherlock orders to his flatmate. Sherlock is living proof that being distracted on a case will do you no good. It wouldn't do for John to get hurt too (though Raz shouldn't be bringing them to face killers, but one never knows – someone might be there graffiting or reading said coded messages).

Raz brings them to the South Bank skate park. Which is genius from their smuggling ring, as no one will notice graffiti there. There are so many – the very same message from the criminals Raz found (same paint, same old Chinese numerals) are already partially painted over.  There _must_ be more, though, so they split to look for evidence. He'd rather they be together still, but it's more practical. Case takes precedence. He can't allow himself to behave idiotically (John would question his behaviour).

He's examining a parked rail freight container, when John comes over to him claiming he's found the evidence, and scolding him for not answering his phone. (He prefers to text, it's almost the first thing Sherlock said in his presence – did John delete that? How inconvenient.)

They run to study that, blood singing ecstatically in Sherlock's veins (and John's too, surely – shouldn't it?). When they are at the rails, though, Sherlock should be utterly disappointed. Their evidence is already lost. Painted over entirely. (He doesn't doubt that there _were_ symbols – John wouldn't joke with him when there are two victims already. And he wouldn't be so baffled or sad about it.)

“It was here ten minutes ago!” his flatmate protests against fate.

“Somebody doesn't want me to see it,” the sleuth deduces. And God help him, because instead of frustrated he's gleeful. He has an excuse to touch his...flatmate, and Teen Sherlock is jubilant about it (NOT his John, when will the kid ever understand that?). He's holding John's head in both hands, and he shouldn't like it.

John doesn't like it, protesting, but the detective shushes him up. He doesn't want to lose the contact. That it'll help John to remember is just bonus. He hopes John will close his eyes to concentrate – not see how invested in him Sherlock is. (He'll be mocked; yelled at.) The sleuth moves his hands to John's upper arms. Not skin on skin anymore (that might be distracting more than helpful – but Teen Sherlock whines immediately at the change). He spins them around, staring at John as he tries to penetrate into his mind, trying to make him remember.

John is sure he has it all memorized. Sherlock doubts it. His not-friend is mostly average, and the average person's visual memory is far from perfect.

...John took a photo. Great thinking on his part. He should be commended. Sherlock doesn't. His teen self is moping because he has no excuse to touch him anymore, and he's embarrassed because he talked over John and didn't let the doctor reveal the proof before. What if John reads him, reads how glad he was to touch him seconds ago? Will he be uncomfortable with it? Disgusted by it? Oh God. He must stop worrying over John. Start analysing the bloody case. He finally has a wealth of evidence. Forget John! (That's not going to be easy. At all.)

They're back home, and if he doesn't manage to forget his flatmate altogether, he can at least concentrate on what's in front of him. Symbols over symbols over symbols. All numbers. Couple of numbers, to be exact.

John is less than helpful, clearly too sleepy to think. Which is very odd. They are closer to cracking the murderer/smugglers' code. Why isn't John excited over it? (Though he's somewhat cute all knackered like this – oh _stop it_ Sherlock! Decoding now. Not glancing at your flatmate. Or thinking about him. Or anything about him.)

He asks himself why the smugglers would write on that wall instead of knowing it outright – they've lost something precious, of course they'd want to get it back – and if that isn't an obvious sign that he should not let himself be taken by anything but the case what else is it?

It appears that the code is impossible to crack though, not without Soo Lin Yao. This is no easy substituting number for letters, which he would read in a jiffy.

And John reacts to the news with a, “Oh, good!”. He's practically sleeping upright, but he still follows without question. It warms Sherlock's (non-existent) heart. Dear John. (But not friend John.)              

Whether it be the cold air outside, or the prospect of finding a missing person (preferably before their murderer), John is more awake when they reach the museum again. Though the suitor of Soo Lin is less than helpful, insisting that he has no idea where she might be – that she's probably far away – even if both John and he explain to him that locating her might be essential to save her life. The boy is not only young and an obviously importune suitor (woe be anyone who got saddled with him as his/her soulmate), but also a blind idiot. If Soo Lin is thousands miles away, who cared for these teapots? Not the idiot, or he'd have said.         

Later still, they're ambushing one Soo Lin Yao in the process of taking care of these ridiculously old (and apparently precious) teapots. Which Sherlock saves by mere reflex because startling already threatened people is not as good an idea as he'd thought. He pays due homage, calling her clever for escaping the killer until now. She is. Then starts to milk her for information.            

She's very forward. Their killer is called the Spider (Zhi Zhu). He works for the Tong of the Black Lotus (finally their smugglers have got a name). The very same organisation she used to work for. Being young and hungry is never easy. Being young and hungry and having someone to care for... What would Mycroft have done in the same position? (Probably found a way to blackmail someone, to be fair.)

It surprises him that she's refused to help the smugglers now – help her own brother. Especially when she must have known what their reaction would be. This young woman has more spine than most people Sherlock knows. He admires her. She's further betraying them, telling Sherlock how the code is based upon a book (clever; unless one finds the book, the numbers will remain utterly meaningless).

Then suddenly the lights go out, their agile murderer finally there. Sherlock runs toward the danger. He can face their man. He can apprehend him.

...He'll never forgive himself. Not catching the murderer, fine. Being sidestepped, can happen. But having a murderer kill his victim practically in his presence...He shouldn't have run after him. He should have protected Soo Lin. He left John to defend Soo Lin; his brave soldier. Why, oh why did John think Sherlock needed more protection than the actual victim of many threats?...No, that's not John's fault. That's his fault. He miscalculated, and a great woman is dead as a result. This death is on him as much as on the Spider. (Hating her, sure; but how can you kill your own sister?)  

They have to face Dimmock, after that. Who does his best to ignore them. John's incensed, and very awake as a result. “How many murders is it gonna take before you start believing that this maniac’s out there?” he queries. “A young girl was gunned down tonight. That’s three victims in three days. You’re supposed to be finding him.”

Well, Dimmock is not the only one who is supposed to be solving this case and failing spectacularly at that. Sherlock takes the words as directed at himself and fights the urge to apologise. Apologising would be meaningless. It won't bring Soo Lin Yao back. It won't do anything.

Instead, he recaps the new data for the inspector. He'll need to be in the loop to investigate. (He's not being disparaging, he maintains, when he says how the Black Lotus has been working right under the police's nose. Just stating facts.) Distrustful, Dimmock asks for more evidence of their theories. That's no problem.  

Though he despises having to flirt to get what he needs. If people would only see helping him make his point as the priority it should be, he would not have to make small talk with Molly. Or tell her the new style of her hair suits her better.

Molly really should not have impure thoughts about him. He's clearly not her soulmate, not even a homonym – she'd have mentioned it ages ago if she bore his name – and he's doing her a favour by not agreeing to her awkward openings. He's not an easy man to handle. He would break her heart in a week without even meaning to. He hopes that she finds her own soulmate soon. That should heal her from her crush. Though how is he going to obtain favours from her then? (He shouldn't have to worry about it.)

Seconds later, and his theory is proved. Just as Soo Lin Yao assured them, every smuggler has a black lotus tattoo on the soles of their feet. What are the chances that two men of different backgrounds would opt for the same, odd tattoo – and in such a position that it'd be hidden all the time? Tattoos are mostly made to be shown, either to all or just to one's partner in the case of more intimately-placed tattoo. Who would get to see a tattoo on the sole of one's foot? A fetishist?

Dimmock has to give up and admit that, as always, Sherlock is right. He's baffled by the sleuth's request for all the victims' books to be sent to 221B, though. He complies, of course. But it's easier than telling him and leaving the police to try to determine which book is used for the code. No, it's definitely better doing things this way and then offering him the solution, as he's used to do.  

John feels that they're no closer to finding their ring of smugglers with a taste for murder than at the start of this case, and says as much. Sherlock corrects him quickly. They know so much now (after Soo Lin's help – he owes it to her to solve this case; Sherlock doesn't even remember Sebastian's involvement anymore). If the Black Lotus needed Soo Lin, it means they're dealing in antiquities.  

Inspired, since he can't solve the code until the books arrive, he opens a web page to check art auctions. Chinese artefacts, anonymous vendor...and lo and behold, each one coincides with a trip by either Lukis or Van Coon. If one of the two mules stole something, the murderers make sense.   (This is too easy. That's the only reason he's caught up into John's closeness, his flatmate reading over his shoulder. Not his John, goddamnit. This means nothing. He needs to get his stupid, rebellious heartbeat under control before _doctor_ Watson notices.)   

Finally the book arrive, and for once Dimmock is asking if he can 'assist' them. Why would he need assistance? He's got John for that. Now it all boils down to checking – book after book. When he finds a one-word threat as the first word of page fifteen, he'll know that he has the right book and can translate everything else. And once they break the code, and can read their messages they'll be so much closer to catching them.

Sherlock doesn't expect John to stay the whole night. He's not asking him to. His flatmate could go to sleep and the detective would barely notice, deep in his investigation. But John stays, determined to help. To see this through. It isn't just convenient for Sherlock, or helpful. It's something he's never had (not even Victor would fake this sort of companionship for him) and God, but he loves it. Having someone to share cases with makes him happy. John makes him happy. And it won't last. Obviously.    


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

 John is absolutely done in. He hasn't gotten one wink of sleep before having to go to work. And if they had broken the code, he wouldn't mind. But he has left Sherlock still in the process of opening book after book after book. (He never stops, and he doesn't seem to slow down, too. How in the hell does he manage? Is the man a cyborg? Does he have batteries?)

The good doctor is on autopilot. Let's hope no one is affected by some subtle, dangerous illness because he's likely to miss it today. Maybe if he just rests his eyes thirty seconds before the next one, he'll be more alert then...   

The next thing he's aware of is Sarah gently shaking him. He's fallen asleep at his bloody desk. If the earth could be so kind as to open and swallow him...He apologises hurriedly, and is trying to explain, but as Sarah – his boss – points out, there's going to be time for that later. He should really get to work. John blushes brightly and nods briskly.

Of course. Patients. Annoyed patients (and rightly so). The first one makes no mystery of what she thinks of him. Again, John apologises. He's going to apologise a lot of times, today. (And it's all Sherlock's fault for being so unreasonable. The books would still have been there today. Though, of course, they might have a new victim too – hopefully not. And he's getting distracted thinking about the case. He's the worst.)

Hours later, he discovers Sarah has taken over her good shares of his patients (now that was so nice of her; she's a good friend) and he apologises again, “I'm very sorry. That's not very professional.” He manages not to blush in shame. That's never happened to him before – he's worked under pressure, and on little sleep, and been fine. Never on absolutely no sleep, though, and maybe the pressure actually helped keep him alert. Saving people's life and limbs gets you focused in a way diagnosing colds can't do.  

Sarah can only agree with him. John is overcome by the urge to explain, “I had, um, a bit of a late one.” Though that's not an excuse. Absolutely not. He's an adult. He should be able to shoulder his own responsibilities.

Once again, Sarah agrees vaguely, but when John tries to slip away, she asks for details. Well, he owes her an answer. She's his boss. She needs to know what's happened – to be sure it won't happen again. (It won't. John will be sensible and go to bed and not let siren Sherlock ensnare him anymore.) Unsure about what to say, he calls it ' a book event'. Well, there were books. Lots of them. “I was trying to break the code of a smuggler's ring which is murdering people,” would look like absolute bull after all, though it's the truth.

Sarah assumes John was pleasing his girlfriend. John wishes he could answer, “No, it was my soulmate,” more than anything in the world, but this Sherlock is not his Sherlock. And the woman has been sending him signals he should be blind and deaf not to notice, and he does need to distract himself from the impossible individual that is his homonym flatmate.

So instead he tells the truth. “It wasn't a date.”

And Sarah's reply is, “Good.” She tries to retract the statement then, fumbling with her words, but John won't let her. She wants to, he wants to, why shouldn't they have fun together? (He'll have to remember not to take off his name-covering band; if Sarah reads the blog she'll assume John is soulmate-betraying trash, too.) In seconds, he's secured a date for tonight. Not lost his touch, then. He's relieved.

Figures that Sherlock would try to throw a spanner in his plans. “We're going out tonight,” his flatmate announces. Though John can believe that the man needs air, as he claims. Going to change his clothes, John glanced at him and found him still picking up books. It's well past twelve hours that he's been continuously trying to break the goddamn code. His brain must be smoking. 

“Actually, I've, er, got a date,” John replies, with a little smug smile. Three continents Watson is back in action. Sherlock will have to find some other company tonight. (Though with people's reaction at the idea of him having a friend he might find that hard).

The detective doesn't seem to get his words, so the doctor decides to explain cheekily, “It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun.”

“That's what _I_ was suggesting,” the sleuth bits back, not pouting – but looking like he could do so.

“No it wasn't...at least I _hope_ not,” John replies. No no no no, Sherlock had already rejected him, he couldn't change idea now. He couldn't. Because John would make an exception to his bloody sexuality for him, and he might fall for him – too easily – but they won't last, because they aren't soulmates, and none of John’s relationships lasted, and then? If he let himself pretend – pretend this Sherlock was his Sherlock, he would do so even if he didn't mean to, of course he would, everyone did, Harry did, and look how well it turned for her. He is going to ignore any future openings Sherlock will offer him, and be just friends, good friends, and all will be well. Perfect, indeed.

John is going to have a nice date tonight with a nice girl and not his oddly named flatmate who is inquiring about his date plans and pronouncing them boring. Sherlock suggests the Chinese circus. John refuses politely. He knows how to date, thank you. While Sherlock doesn't seem exactly Casanova (though he could, with his looks).       

Sherlock isn't so easily deterred. In the end, John gives in. All the while wondering why he even does. Why he can't say no to Sherlock. Why he's thinking of Sherlock while he prepares for his date and should be anticipating that – her. I mean, it would be logic if they were soulmates, but it's been determined that they aren't.

John is reminded of a philosophical theory of ages past (clearly created by people who, like him, had trouble with confusing feelings for homonyms) that stated how maybe, sometimes, soulmates could be onesided. Person A would be person B's soulmate but A's soulmate would be person C. It was bull, of course, like the geocentric theory. They just hadn't found the right one. Like John's Sherlock, who is somewhere in Korea or America or God knows where.

He needs to stop coming up with absurd ideas. He needs to think about Sarah and how to score with her. Though considering how willing she seemed it shouldn't need much effort. Maybe _that_ 's the reason he's thinking of Sherlock. He needs something challenging. Yes, that's surely it. Just that.

That night, Sarah is at his side, and John is not-exactly-apologizing for the odd choice of a date venue. He blames it all on a carefully left nameless friend's recommendation. If this goes wrong, he's so scolding Sherlock for it (and definitely not taking any suggestions from the _celibate_ flatmate anymore). They should be seeing a movie. A romantic comedy maybe. Or a scary one so she'd cuddle up to him. Not trapeze artists. How can they set the right mood? Once again, he silently chides himself for giving into Sherlock's whims.

(This circus is Chinese. They're after one of the Chinese Tongs. Sherlock hasn't suggested he bring a date inside the den of murderous criminals, has he? John suspects the chances of having sex with her would go down rather dramatically if she realized as much.)

Moments later, he's thinking the worst thing that could happen is having to admit that he booked the tickets in his flatmate's name. Hopefully Sarah won't realize that Sherlock's the one paying for this. (One of the reasons John agreed to making him pick it – but in truth the problem is that he finds very difficult to deny Sherlock anyway. Misguided feelings. The very reason he needs this date.)

And then the bloody consulting detective himself invites himself over to John's date, introducing himself to Sarah with a smile so fake it hurts to watch. It's outrageous. It's unprecedented. It's madness, just like Sherlock. John is angry. Of course he is. But a voice inside his head insists that they should have expected this. The sleuth had wanted his company tonight, and common sense is not something he seems to possess. 

...Sarah is taking this with considerable grace, though it might be the effect of shock. But she excuses herself to the loo, and John imagines her screaming and raging for her ruined night. He decides to face Sherlock. Can't let himself be overwhelmed. “You couldn't let me have _one_ night off?” he hisses.

The detective doesn't even acknowledge the possibility, and starts talking about the murderer, making actually a convincing case for the man to be a tightrope walker or something of the sort. And of course Sherlock wants to investigate the circus. John won't even fault him for this. “Fine. You do that. I'm gonna take Sarah for a pint.” Changing plans won't be too great of a bother. What counts is the ending of the evening, and Sarah is as keen as himself on that.                 

But his mad flatmate needs John's help, and he has the gall to be scolding John. He really doesn't conceive how anyone could be thinking of anything but catching a murderer tonight, and John likes their cases, he really does, but he needs to have a life beyond Sherlock, before he goes crazy too. On another note, this is a ruthless murderer they're chasing and what if Sherlock gets himself killed as he seems to be fond of trying to do? John will have to learn to chase killers while also trying to score with Sarah. Wanted a challenge, did he? Now he got one.

John has his doubts about all this, but at least the performance startles Sarah into holding onto him, so coming here wasn't an entirely bad idea. Now, if only he could concentrate on the nice sensation and not on the sudden disappearance of his flatmate, gone off to snoop between (hopefully not) smugglers and killers, that would be ideal.

He'll have to thank Sherlock for the idea though, because the show is really beautiful. Of course, if he could observe the practically flying man without imagining him murdering not entirely innocent people, he would enjoy this a lot more.

But if their murderer is on stage he can't be murdering Sherlock in the back. Well, not that his associates will probably have any qualms doing the same. But he can't disappear to search for Sherlock and make sure he's safe, damn it. Sarah is probably thinking that his odd flatmate is being considerate by leaving, and would have more than one objection to being abandoned.

Until Sherlock is flung on stage and there's a bastard with a knife and John is not thinking anymore, he's barrelling against the criminal because he's not letting anyone hurt the sleuth, thank you very much. The detective might be a date-ruining git but he doesn't deserve a stab wound. The would-be murderer kicks John hard and he's left winded and absolutely terrified for a moment.

Thank God _Sarah_ – of all people – is attacking the man, too, and putting him out of commission, unbelievable as it sounds. Note to self: never make his boss-slash-girlfriend angry. She kicks ass – and John is utterly, utterly grateful for that. Bit smug, too. It's a great woman that he's pulled. (And a keeper, hopefully).                      

Then Sherlock is leading them all to Scotland Yard, to inform Dimmock, and it is only when already there – noticing Sarah's bewildered expression – that John remembers he's on a date, not a case. He's followed Sherlock without question, without _thought_ – so much for getting a life beyond his mad flatmate's influence.

Dimmock is still annoying, asking for all the details of the case – even the ones they don't have (yet), but at least he follows their suggestions now (Lestrade talked sense into him, apparently).

It might be an odd first date, but at least John is sure it will be a memorable one – he doubts Sarah ever had something quite like this. And after all, once dealt with Dimmock they're going home and that's good. Things will quiet down. He'll be able to smooth over the ending of his date, he's sure.

 

Sherlock hates Sarah. He'd wanted tonight the utter happiness of working the case with John, but she had to tag along and divert John's attention away from him. Away from the case, and to silly things like getting off. Who needs oxytocin when they can have adrenaline?

He would have agreed to call tonight a date between them, even if the thought scared him a bit. He tried to – but John reacted badly. (Why? Isn't he happy with Sherlock, like the sleuth is with him?) He would have agreed to anything as long as John didn't bring along an unwanted third wheel, really.

The absurd thing is that Sarah herself has enough common sense to know it's time for her to quietly disappear and leave them to solve this case – hopefully break the code and find the rendezvous place for the gang from the messages John took a picture of. But when Sherlock agrees with her, John becomes angry at him (the sleuth hates when his flatmate is angry at him, though he doesn't care about anyone else) and insists for her to stay. Why should she stay? She'll be useless. Worse, she'll clearly be a distraction for John. He needs John's help (well, not strictly, but he _wants_ it.)

He can't ask for it though, because she's ensuring John takes care of her now, by proposing to eat no less. They're mid case, for God's sake. He can't help the exasperated sigh leaving him. He knows John doesn't share his convictions and would look favourably to the idea even if he wasn't busy trying to please her.                  

She could have the decency to stick by John's side. It would be distasteful (it shouldn't be) but expected. But no, she's hovering by Sherlock's side _while he's trying to solve his damn case._ What is it? Payback for 'ruining' their date? 

“You solve puzzles for a living,” she says. What is that even supposed to mean? It's not just 'puzzles' (though that's welcome, of course – is he so easy to read?). He's stopping crimes.

“Consulting detective,” he points out without looking at her (she might see that as encouragement.)

He tries to ignore her and work, he really does, but she doesn't let herself be ignored. She keeps asking questions. Why try to pretend that she's interested? There's no need for her to do so. She should realize. Sherlock has even admitted openly that he doesn't want her here. Why would she loiter around him? Sherlock wishes that she'd leave him alone and go bother John, who would probably not be bothered at all because he _likes_ her.

Why does John even bother dating? Is it really only for the sake of 'getting off ' ? Is mere sex worth all the trouble? The detective doubts it. Besides, she's not John's soulmate, he thinks with grim satisfaction. She won't make John _happy._

Then again, John can't be his soulmate either, and look how happy the doctor makes him. Does Sarah give John the same? On second thought, maybe it's better that the woman isn't near John without his supervision. (That will make John angry at him once again, though, won’t it?)

And the fact that Sherlock is wondering about John’s dating habits now and not solving the case should be enough to prove that John’s dates are detrimental to the Work. But if he ordered John to keep from dating, at least mid-case, would John agree to it? He wants to see the case solved, surely, but…does he want sex more? Would he stop admiring Sherlock if he knew how easy it is to sidetrack him?

Sarah is still playing interest (surely it’s fake), and touching the evidence, and if she doesn’t stop Sherlock is going to deduce something awful about her.  She keeps stating what they already know – the numbers are a cipher. But then she adds, “And each pair of numbers is a word.” That makes the sleuth pay attention to her. He hadn’t told her – did she _deduce_ it?

She’s a fighter when in need, as they saw earlier. She must be somehow bright to have gotten a medical degree. But if she’s very bright – understanding things at a glance – John won’t need him anymore, will he? Not even as amusement. He’ll move in with Sarah. Sherlock dreads the prospect.

She’s not a genius, luckily. Someone – obviously the much lamented Soo Lin – started translating.

Sherlock calls for his flatmate. (Why is he taking so long in the kitchen anyway? What is John trying to arrange? A ‘romantic dinner’? Oh gosh please.) John has to see this. They’ve been blind – not something Sherlock would like to admit, especially not in the presence of this…intruder. (She might have noticed it, but Sherlock is surely not going to thank her. He would have much sooner if she hadn’t distracted him.)

The Black Lotus is offering nine millions for something. They are hunting – and the sleuth needs to know for what. It would give them useful clues (yes, he’s sent Dimmock to the circus, but he doesn’t trust the Yard to do much with the knowledge).

He invites John back to the museum. Surely solving the code takes precedence over dinner with Sarah? It would be so easy, now. The book must still be on Soo Lin’s desk, from when she was translating before being so brutally and definitely interrupted. They can solve this is in a moment. On that desk there weren’t hundreds of books – not even a dozen. Of course, he gets angry at himself for not noticing it earlier (for owing it to bloody Sarah), but that doesn’t matter now.

He’s out of 221B in a moment, and then it hits him suddenly. John’s not with him. Getting off takes priority over solving the case. (File away for later. No time to be disappointed now. Which is unreasonable – John’s not as involved as him in the Work.)

No, now’s time to find a cab but everything seems to go wrong today. The taxi ignores him – they never do that – and the German tourists he’s brushed against are angry and is there something else that wants to pile up against him tonight? He apologizes quickly (but not satisfactorily, it seems – what does the man _want_?)  and is about to continue in his search for a cab when a realization hits him like a ton of bricks. (He’s solved this as soon as he’d left Sarah’s company. He’ll really have to insist with John that she doesn’t wander into 221B anymore.)

A book everyone owns. Even foreigners, as soon as they set foot in London. The London A-Z. Just like he’d thought, the solution was staring him in the face this whole time. He could go home – he has both Van Coon and Lukis’ copies lying about – but John might get annoyed at being interrupted once again in his attempts of seduction. Sherlock doesn’t want to be unwanted in his own home. Better to borrow the German tourists’ book – no matter very much not incline to sharing the man is.

Now, if page fifteen’s first word is a threat of some sort, he’ll be certain that he has the right book. Deadman – from Deadman’s Lane. He talks out loud – easier to draw conclusions. No John, no skull – no one; so he calls to the absent smugglers, “You were threatening to kill them.” He takes out the photo of the painted-over code. Now, the rest of it. One word at a time, the message finally takes shape. “Nine mill for jade pin Dragon Den black tramway.” He has the hideout of the Black Lotus!

Surely that’s worth interrupting their ‘romantic’ dinner for? They can catch the criminals. Yes, he should contact Dimmock once again, but it’s not him in Sherlock’s mind. He can solve this case, and he should do so with John. He runs back home like a bullet, calling gleefully to him – but neither John nor Sarah are in the kitchen. God, they haven’t skipped to ‘dessert’ already, have they?

Sherlock enters the sitting room…Empty, again. But what makes his heart skip several beats is the yellow graffiti on the window. A message he has seen plenty of times. 15, 1. Dead man. What? No, no, no, no, no. It wasn’t supposed to go like that. Dead? Surely not John. Well, not yet. The message is a threat. If they just wanted John dead, the body would have been there. No, they want something (the jade pin? Why would they think John has it?). He can stop them. He will stop them. (He has already lost Soo Lin, he’s not going to lose John Watson. Absolutely not.)

Time is of the essence, but terror clutches Sherlock and makes him sluggish. He doesn’t trust his own Mind Palace map of London for that (he can’t risk a misstep, going to the wrong tramway line). He knows he has a map somewhere, but for a moment he’s left simply staring at the bookcase. Afraid. Unseeing. What if he fails? (He should have refused this case. All would be well.)

“Oh, Christ,” he whispers. He doesn’t even believe in God. But if it existed, Sherlock would pray for Him to guard John until he can do it himself.

Then he finally finds his map, and checks out the murderers’ hideout. There they are. Now he only has to reach them before they understand that John really has no idea about the goddamned pin and decide to get rid of him. He can do that. (He simply has to.)

He’s never been happy to hear John’s voice as he is now, hearing him swear that he’s not Sherlock Holmes, desperate – for himself? For his date? (A sharp stab of guilt. They’ve taken John – and Sarah in the bargain – because they thought his flatmate was him. They wanted _him_. Clumsy smugglers.)

“I don’t believe you,” the Chinese woman hisses.

“You should, you know,” he declares loudly, attracting the woman’s attention – away from John. “Sherlock Holmes is nothing at all like him. How would _you_ describe me, John? Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?” Fine, now he’s openly fishing for compliments, but he’s entitled to some. He’s solved the case (and if John had picked him over Sarah, he wouldn’t even have been kidnapped). One little ‘amazing’ wouldn’t go amiss.            

“Late,” the doctor replies, exasperated.

Well, he’s _not_. He has been terrified that he could have been, but John is fine and even Sarah seems unharmed. He’s not late. He’s right on time.

Things start going rather quickly then – persuading the smugglers’ boss that shooting really isn’t the best idea (a richocheting bullet could hit her; it could hit John; he really has to keep her from shooting), fighting her thugs, and then, saving Sarah.

Or – trying to. He owes her one for before, there’s the arrow aimed at her, and Sherlock’s not going to lose someone else after Soo Lin in this case. He wouldn’t forgive himself. And John wouldn’t forgive him, either. His flatmate is already halfway to angry towards him. He doesn’t need to disappoint John.

Now, if the Spider wasn’t so intent in strangling him, things would go considerably quicker. He still does his best – trying to deal with both issues at once – but once again, he’s the one saved in the end. Because John – resourceful, brilliant John – managed to deviate the arrow and not only save Sarah but kill Sherlock’s attacker in the process. He can finally untie Sarah. She’s sobbing, so he awkwardly tries to comfort her with soft, reassuring words and small touches. That’s how it’s done, right?

And yet, when he hears John promising her further, much better dates, he can’t help the twinge of annoyance within himself. Shouldn’t the spectacular failure be enough for John to decide this is an experiment better not tried again? For Sherlock it would be.

He should be chasing down the escaped smugglers, but he doesn’t. Because, once again, John wouldn’t follow him – and look what happened the last time they got separated. But much more, besides that, Sherlock doesn’t want to be on his own now that he has the option not to be.

So, instead, he calls Dimmock – and when the man finally arrives, he tries to strike a deal with him, like he did with Lestrade. “A glittering career,” he prospects to the inspector. His name doesn’t need to appear anywhere. He’s not into this for the recognition. The Work is his life, his drug, his everything. (And now he wants John involved in the Work…how bad can that end? Today he’s gotten the first taste.)

The inspector understands that collaborating with him – following his directions – is the price for further advancement in his career. After what he’s seen, he’ll be incline to make use of Sherlock. Another way to get cases. Perfect. At least one good thing will come out of tonight’s failure.

The following day, Seb contacts him. Apparently he’s aware that the case has been solved and feels the need to pay the detective. He doesn’t need Seb’s money. But if he refuses, John will get angry – he’s so hung up on money lately. At least he has something nice to do at the the bank – a little follow-up to yesterday’s case. The jade pin three people got killed for – the one John got kidnapped for – should still be adorning her clueless owner’s hair (she’d never wear it if she knew its value). So he brings along John – the blond can deal with Wilkes, as Sherlock refuses categorically to do so.

He’s half tempted to wait until John is done with the human slime to approach Van Coon’s secretary (would that get him one sweet ‘amazing’?) but he needs to stop thinking of him. This is simply the Work, and John has no right to invade it (even if he has already done so). Will John be disappointed that Sherlock didn’t include him in this? Well, Sherlock has been disappointed by his flatmate picking Sarah over the case. They’ll be even. Without further hesitation, he approaches the unaware owner of a nine million pound hairpin. (Does she really need to screech like that?  Ugh.)

A day later, the news is all over the papers. John comments on it, adding, “Should’ve just got her a lucky cat.” Sherlock can’t help the smile flitting on his face. (Why isn’t John his friend? Teen Sherlock wonders, with a point of sadness. Shouldn’t this easy camaraderie move him a bit further from John’s acquaintance?)

Then, John is asking if he cares about the failure of this case. In his words, “It’s not enough that we got her two henchmen.”

The detective reminds him that the Tong is a vast organization; one they can’t possibly think to take down alone (and above all not with Dimmock’s help – the man’s an idiot). He can’t even take comfort in the cracking of the code, like John seems to be doing. “All the smugglers have to do is pick up another book,” he explains. So, yes, this case was an utter disappointment (he should have been able to do better – it’s no wonder that John prefers someone’s else company now).

But what he can’t say it’s that the worse let down of all the situation is John taking down the selfie they made together during the dinner after what he’s called on his blog A study in Pink (such a stupid name) and replacing it on his blog with an image that contains only him. (He doesn’t look half as happy in there.) It’s sensible, of course, after what has happened. We can’t really have any more confused kidnappers. It still depresses Sherlock (he has no right to be sad over this…idiocy). He’ll need to snoop into John’s phone when he’s distracted and send it to himself. Maybe it’ll cheer him up. (His moods are more than affected by John. They’re entirely at his mercy, and completely unreasonable. That can’t be allowed to continue.)                        


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Nothing at all mine. A.N. I apologize because there’s no John this month but Sherlock started to talk and talk and I realized that I had to either make you wait two months (my writing rhytms are what they are) and make you face an overly long chapter or I had to split the points of view. I preferred this way, I hope you will agree with me.

It’s not that he’s back to that silly experiment about keeping John and work separated and see their respective effects. But John has commitments – all of which seem to involve dr. Sarah Sawyer one way or another – and he didn’t even consider coming with Sherlock all the way to Minsk, Belarus, for a case who might or might not even be interesting. The sleuth didn’t ask him to, to be fair, but if John had been interested – he’d only need a word. Or two, as it were. “Want company?”

The answer would obviously have been yes. Not, “God yes!” – Sherlock wouldn’t let him glance that deep into his own neediness. He can’t let John know that the Work – which used to be his life (all Sherlock had ever wanted) – doesn’t taste the same now, after he knows what Work together with John is like. He’s been ruined entirely. Now it’s not just about the mystery – or even the adrenaline. He misses his flatmate/colleague (apparently not even friend – much less _his_ John).

“Pitiful, Sherlock.” That’s what Mycroft would say, without a doubt – if he was informed of his little brother’s ridiculous weakness. That’s what he tells himself, through his mind-palace brother’s likeness. “You have to stop this _now_ , ‘Lock. Be reasonable for once,” Mycroft’s shadow orders. He’s never been too inclined to obey his brother – much less now, when he simply can’t do so. It’s not like he meant to get so very attached. It just sort of happened. He finds – scarily – that he can’t control it.

So he’s testy with the prospective client.  He accepted to come because it would bring him away from John-and-Sarah, who irk him for some reason (though John has every right to make a life for himself after losing his soulmate – of course he has, and the sleuth has no say in it at all). Now that he’s far from them, though, he’s even angrier – for no reason at all. Well, with his ‘client’ for wasting his time. Sherlock can’t – he _won’t_ – help a confessed criminal. What is he supposed to investigate? He’s not a lawyer.

 But the sleuth could have inquired that before leaving London. Instead no, he took any excuse to leave London and 221B, which felt stifling. And now he aches for home and his flatmate’s presence. It’s entirely unreasonable. He hurries back, leaving the shocked murderer to yell insults after him.

Once at home, he decides he’s just bored. Bored seems a safe option, and reasonable – he hasn’t had a decent case in what feels like forever, even if it’s in truth no more than four days. Definitely better than ‘I’m in a dark mood because I want my flatmate to pay attention to me,” or “with nothing to focus on I keep having unreasonable urges,” and how he is supposed to explain that?

He pilfers John’s gun (not because he wants something to feel closer to John by, God no; he just always wanted one – and that’s true too). The wall had it coming anyway. That it makes John ask about him is just an added bonus – there’s no way the soldier will ignore shots being fired. True, his exact words are, “What the hell are you doing?”…not exactly, “How are you feeling?” but he wouldn’t be able to answer that honestly anyway.

He proclaims his boredom loudly, frustrated, hoping and terrified at the same time that John will see through the façade, but John simply takes him in stride (but still takes away his gun – not that Sherlock expected him not to).

His flatmate inquires after the “Russian” case then. To which Sherlock can’t really help but point out that it was “Belarus,” then proceeding to complain about how useless his trip was. Domestic murder. No mystery at all. The doctor’s reply could be sympathetic if not for the sarcasm dripping from his voice. If he’d been called on a home visit for a cold he would complain though, Sherlock is sure. Why can’t John understand?

The detective can’t sit still – keeps changing position, but nothing feels comfortable. (If only John would touch him again…now where did that thought come from? He’s not a dog, to ask to be petted!)

Instead of empathising with him, the doctor moves to the kitchen, as he’s hungry. And he’s met with Sherlock’s newest experiment. Well, experiments. The disembodied head in the fridge serves many purposes at once. There’s, of course, the one he’ll admit to – studying the coagulation of saliva post-mortem.

But he’s analysing his flatmate too. Will John now suspect him of murder, believing Donovan’s claims? Will this finally make him run for the metaphorical hills (or, more simply, to Sarah – hopefully definitely this time)? It would better, if John decided he wants to live together with his girlfriend instead. He would have no power of Sherlock’s moods anymore.

Well, for a time he would still, even in his absence, the sleuth suspects – but if he has to go cold turkey from John Watson he should really start early rather than later.  John is surely going to leave someday, doesn’t he? Everyone does.

It seems, though, that the severed head in the fridge won’t, after all, be his flatmate’s breaking point. He protests, of course, but once Sherlock starts heaping his own justifications (especially the very reasonable, “Where else was I supposed to keep it?”) he makes no move to call the police or throw the experiment away. He doesn’t even call Sherlock freak, which would be fully justified. He plays nice, but why? What does he get out of it? And above all, why is his behaviour so inconsistent?

He’s not been nice when he wrote up their first case. Not nice at all. Sherlock decides to call him out on it. He mentions it airily, as if it doesn’t matter (it shouldn’t). “I see you’ve written up the taxi driver case.” John agrees vaguely.

“A study in pink. Nice!” It’s obvious sarcasm, but the word is on his mind a lot now. The case of his flatmate’s randomly disappearing and reappearing niceness.

John defends his choice, saying there _was_ a lot pink in the case. There was, Sherlock supposes, but surely there were more important elements to focus on for an elegant exposition of what happened. You could almost make a theorem out of it. And now it’s been wasted that way. Asked if he liked the post, the sleuth can only be honest. “Erm, not.” A tiny part of him still hesitates to displease his flatmate. (He shouldn’t care about it.) But truth is truth.

John doesn’t get it. He thinks the detective should be “flattered”. But of course. What better way to flatter someone than to call them “spectacularly ignorant”? Sherlock quotes back the blog angrily. Does really John need to humiliate him publicly? They might not be friends (that quip to Wilkes will never stop smarting) but even as flatmates they might hold a degree to politeness toward each other (not Sherlock, and not now – he wants John out of his life…but not really; that’s his problem).

The doctor tries to defend himself, but his position is indefensible. The sleuth has an extensive experience in insulting other people. He recognizes one when he reads it. (He shouldn’t have bothered to read the blog – he shouldn’t care what the man thinks.)

Not for the first time, they fight over astronomy. It might be primary school, but it will not help Sherlock solve his cases. Why should he allocate precious brain space for useless information that will only clutter it? Politics (he’s not Mycroft), gossip, and yes, astronomy are all useless. When he is asked to consult in outer space he will look something up…but the chances of that happening are practically non-existent. Of course he’s deleted space. He needs chemistry at hand; his 243 tobacco ash types. Not what we orbit around (and anyway, anyone moves in his own private orbit under the sun).

He explains his theory – people would be much smarter and more efficient if they followed his example (why doesn’t John? Sherlock would be amenable to teach him) – and ends with, “All that matters to me is the Work.” That used to be true. Why oh why can’t it still be like in these golden times?        

“Without that, my brain rots. Put _that_ in your blog. Or better yet, stop inflicting your opinions on the world,” he suggests angrily. And that will be his last word on the matter. To emphasise it, he turns his back to the world (to John) and shields himself with the dressing gown, curling in a ball of misery.

Now would be the right time for his flatmate to apologize, say he didn’t mean to humiliate Sherlock publicly (though obviously he did) and promise to emend his ways. Instead he leaves. He has the gall to leave. For ‘air’. He could be honest and say, “I’m going to Sarah to complain about you not appreciating adequately my literary prowess just because I insulted you a bit – which you deserve.”

 He gets the mad urge to call him back, apologize, anything. What if this is what drives him out? Isn’t it a bit…trivial compared to what John puts up with? Well, and what if it is? Doesn’t Sherlock want the obnoxious flatmate out of his life? (He does, but he doesn’t. He very much doesn’t. That’s the root of the problem – the whole reason he bothered to acknowledge that John thought ill of him.) He’s _right_ though, John insulted him without reason first and on the bloody web (things never disappear from there, he’ll be ‘spectacularly ignorant’ forever), so he quashes the urge ruthlessly. He can’t help feeling bereft, though. (He _hates_ John…No, he doesn’t.)

He’s just curled up in an even tighter little ball against all these blasted _feelings_ when Mrs. Hudson invades the sitting room. As much as he loves the woman, who is sort of a mother figure he’s found way too late in his life (then again, as a kid he would be helpless to deal with Mr. Hudson), she sometimes has the worst timing.

“Have you two had a little domestic?” she queries.

Sherlock can’t answer, “I wish, because that’d mean we’d be in a relationship, and really, I’d love to. I’d love if he didn’t scorn me, honestly – that’d be enough,” as that would be quite more openness than Mrs. H. – or anyone really – needs from him. So he doesn’t.

Since the one who hurt his feelings is gone, though, it’s useless to give a cold shoulder to the world – so he gives into instinct and gets to the window, wondering if that’s the last he’ll see of his flatmate.

Their landlady mum keeps nattering, showing she’s already adopted John too. “Bit too soon, Mrs. Hudson, you might be disappointed now,” but again the sleuth doesn’t say it. What he says is, “Look at that, Mrs. Hudson.” _He’s left he’s left he’s left he’s left and it’s my fault, of course it is._

He gazes at the empty street without really seeing it, and remarks, “Quiet, calm, peaceful.” Everything feels hollow. Inside and outside the flat. He can’t help but grimace in distaste, and draws a long breath to chase away horror and a tiny, stubborn edge of panic. “Isn’t it _hateful_?” he whines.

“Oh, I’m sure something’ll turn up, Sherlock. A nice murder – that’ll cheer you up,” the ever-understanding Mrs. Hudson reassures him, chuckling slightly.

“Can’t come too soon,” the sleuth replies wistfully. A nice murder. That would cheer him up all right. Or at least distract him. And if he’s very, very lucky, and the murder is nice enough, it might tempt adrenaline addict John back to his abode and to the Work and Sherlock won’t be miserable anymore. (For a time. Until John leaves again. Where had his resolve to chase him away gone? Already melted away. He’s pitiful.)

Then Mrs. Hudson isn’t at all understanding anymore, getting angry about the bullet holes in the wall and storming off. Why does she even care about the wall? It’s not like it is about to complain. Really, it seems he can only upset people today. And for the silliest of reasons. He makes himself grin at the smiley face he’s shot not long ago. There’s nothing to be depressed about. Nothing at all. The attempt to persuade himself of it dies on the spot, and he sighs wearily. Why does no one like him? Just then the distraction from his own misery comes in the form of a powerful explosion. Just what he needed. (Or not. Gas leak, they say when he inquires about it. Boring. Useless.)

The following morning, the door opens without anyone ringing the bell, and for a moment Sherlock hopes it’s John. He’s abandoned the dressing gown and the sulks and he’s quite dashing in the purple shirt, if he can say so himself, and maybe that will let John know how eager he is for their silly row to be over without him having to say it. Instead, it’s his damned brother. “You’re fine, I see. I trust your flatmate is, too?” he says as opening line.

“John’s more than fine. He wasn’t even here when it happened.” Sherlock would love to be unreadable to Mycroft, but the fat git will observe and correctly deduce the cause of his brother’s bitterness. If he’s not spying on them.

“Driven him away already, have you, Sherlock? And here I had such hopes for him.” The elder Holmes shakes his head in disappointment even while he gives his brother the smirk that means that he knows something Sherlock doesn’t and he’ll share if he’s begged prettily enough (the sleuth never did; he’d rather deduce it on his own or go without that sliver of data).

Sherlock doesn’t reply to that, only replying with glare n. 53.

Mycroft seats himself very deliberately in John’s chair – and Sherlock turns the glare up a notch and goes to retrieve his violin (a powerful weapon of retaliation). He can’t protest because he’s not supposed to care. Not about his flatmate, not about his leaving and surely not about how wrong anyone else in that chair feels (it’s like an itch). “I have a job for you,” the elder one announces.

Just then, John rushes in – calling his name since the stairs with something like panic. Why? Does he care? Why does he care so much (it’s evident in his voice)? Doesn’t he despise his flatmate? “John,” the detective says, acknowledging his presence. He looks at his doctor (he needs to back up the auditory files with more data to deduce from, to solve the puzzle of John caring).

“I saw it on the telly. Are you okay?” John queries, still anxious.                               

“Hmm? What?” The only reason he could be not okay is their row – or Mycroft’s meddling – and he’s pretty sure neither were on tv. Then he takes a look around and remembers the disappointing explosion of yesterday. “Fine. Gas leak, apparently.” _Wish he had a case to involve John in._

He can’t spare any more attention for John then, because there’s his brother to deal with – to chase away. He says he’s too busy, to which the self-important git obviously replies blabbering about ‘national importance’ and how nothing Sherlock’s doing can possibly compare. And when Sherlock decides to needle him, his brother ignores it and tries to involve John instead, who is surprised by it.

Sherlock is too – they never used to involve strangers in their banter. What makes Mycroft think that John has any sway over which cases he accepts? Nobody influences him. (That’s what he needs to show, even if apparently his brother has already read through him. It’s hateful.)

Mycroft keeps blabbering, saying he can’t work it out himself because he does indeed have much more important things, which he only adumbrates. Show off. Is he trying to impress John, or what? (Even if he ends up admitting he’s simply too lazy for that.)  

To distract John, and remind him why he liked Sherlock enough to room with him in the first place, the sleuth deduces him. And of course, upset as he is, misses his mark slightly. And Mycroft corrects him.

Mycroft’s always been the smarter brother, and now even John knows it. He’s just made a fool of himself. What a wonderful day. At least, John doesn’t inquires about the elder Holmes’ deductions like he does with Sherlock’s, but shrugs them off. Sherlock would love to point that out, but before he can, his brother is all clearly set in winning John over like he couldn’t during their first case. He offers one of his ambiguous compliments and then tries to bond over hating Sherlock, of all things. “What’s he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine,” he states.

But John is in his nice phase, because he replies, “I’m never bored.” Right. Mycroft is very boring. And he can’t have John. He just can’t. Sherlock won’t let him. What would Mycroft do with John anyway? He doesn’t need more minions. He has plenty. Sherlock has just John (and he doesn’t even have him, not really) and he needs him.

Mycroft decides to ignore Sherlock’s glare to discuss the case with John, who lets himself be involved way too easily. He wants a case too, after all, doesn’t he? He’s gagging for it. He can’t take jobs from Mycroft nonetheless. And Sherlock’s not going to do so.  

Not even because his brother threatens to order him. He could try it, and then there’d be reason to laugh. He can’t control Sherlock. It’s years that he can’t make the sleuth do anything he doesn’t wish to. With a last “Think it over,” thrown to him, Mycroft leaves…but he makes a point a point to shake John’s hand, tell him a polite ‘goodbye’ and add a half-suggestive, half-creepy, entirely disquieting, “See you _very_ soon.”

Why would he? What does Mycroft want from John? He doesn’t care for ordinary people like John, he never has. He must want to take away the one person Sherlock has found that makes him happy (when John’s not busy making his life miserable). Maybe he thinks to be protecting his younger brother, taking away the one person that can influence his moods (that’s a dangerous power the doctor has over him). What right does he have? The detective expresses his sharp displeasure with a cluster of angry, jarring notes, repeating them over and over until his brother finally is out of the house.

Afterwards, John asks why he’s lied to Mycroft, claiming to be busy when he’s instead supremely idle – dangerously idle, considering the kind of pastimes he’s up to, he could even say, but he doesn’t. “Why shouldn’t I?” Sherlock bites back. If Mycroft can’t deduce when he’s lied to, he should retire. He’s helping keeping his older brother’s mind fit. The elder Holmes insisted so much exactly because he knew perfectly well that Sherlock has nothing to do, so he feels no compuction at all about bothering him to take the case.

“Oh!” John nods. “I see.” Well, he sees _what_? The doctor might be bright on his own right, but he’s not the type to deduce. Sherlock certainly hopes he’s not suddenly developed the ability to see through Sherlock’s masks, because that would be catastrophic and entirely embarrassing almost all the time. (He has way worst secrets to hold than his not-relationship with Mycroft).

“Sibling rivalry. Now we’re getting somewhere,” John diagnoses.

Before Sherlock can deny that his reasons are so…petty, his mobile phone rings. Lestrade! Lestrade with a case, Lestrade who knows him and won’t bother him for domestic murder. The sleuth can’t say yes soon enough. A case is exactly what he needs now. “I’ve been summoned. Coming?” he queries, hating the mix of incertitude, hope and fear that John will, after all, say no. Say that working with Sherlock is not something he enjoys (he’s an adrenaline addict, of course he enjoys it, but…).

“If you want me to,” John replies – polite, but hopeful, oh hopeful for a good case, no less than him.

“Of course,” the sleuth assures, and he really means to stop there. But then, once again, unreasonable, reckless, dangerously close to surface these days Teen Sherlock hijacks control (he keeps doing so since he’s met John – this has to _stop_!) and confesses, “I’d be lost without my blogger.” Any attempt to retract the statement would only draw attention to it, and so Sherlock lets it go – and adds a mental note to add a few planks nailed above the attic’s door as soon as he has the free time to do so.

At Scotland Yard, Lestrade promises one “funny, surprising,” case. If only that could be true. It seems he did well, instinctively inquiring about that ‘gas leak’ yesterday, because someone wants him involved in it. Very much so. In a strong box on the site of the explosion, they’ve found an envelope. Addressed to him. They scanned it for traps, but haven’t dared to open it. Why haven’t they? Did they feel how wrong all this is too?

Who the hell uses Scotland Yard as the postman? Someone insane. Someone daring. Someone interesting. Oh, he’s not going to sit this one out. John will love it, too. More than anything Sarah can offer.

Sherlock throws away his hesitation, the feeling that the envelope might bite him despite being apparently safe (but if it held…germs, for example, they wouldn’t show up on the x ray) and examines it. Bohemian stationery, fine pen…his suitor (now where did that idea come from?) – obviously a woman, and a refined one at that – pulled all the stops to impress him.

Now, what does she want to tell him? Only one way to know. He carefully opens the envelope and finds…an iPhone. A pink one, at that. Not what he expected, he’ll have to admit. His mouth opens in surprise but he manages to rein in any sound. It wouldn’t do.

John’s not as quiet. “But that’s – that’s the phone, the pink phone,” he blurts out. Now please let’s move on from the obvious.

Then Lestrade chimes in with what Sherlock would have never expected. “What, from the Study in pink?”

The sleuth tries to move past the stupid suppositions, stating, “Well, obviously it’s not the same phone,” (he hopes at least to be the only one helping himself to filed evidence) “but it’s supposed to look like…”. Then his mind suddenly backtracks and realizes what the inspector’s words _mean._ With a sense of dread, he queries, “The study in pink? You read his blog?”

“Course I read his blog! We all do,” The DI claims. _Oh joy._ And then, of course…”Do you _really_ not know that the Earth goes round the sun?” Well, what does it _matter_? Donovan, who must have been eavesdropping because she came in with clearly an excuse the moment a study in bloody pink got mentioned, sniggers loudly. And Sherlock chooses to glare at her instead of glaring at one John Watson, even if this is all his fault. But of course, he should be flattered by the blog. Flattered that ‘spectacularly ignorant’ is now added to ‘freak’ and ‘psycho’ and whatever else his coworkers like to throw at him. (Not that their opinion matters. It’s never mattered. But John’s…with his ‘amazing’ and ‘brilliant’…he’s spoiled Sherlock. Well, that’s when truth comes out.)

Donovan, having had her fill of laughter, leaves the room, and the sleuth chooses not to answer Lestrade’s baffled query at all. It’s not worth of his attention. Instead, he continues working the case. Though he can’t help himself from throwing one accusatory look at his flatmate when he declares, “Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to make it _look_ like the same phone, which means your blog has a far wider readership.” And look what has come out of John’s blog. People laughing at him. People stalking him (that’s what this case fallen so neatly into _his_ lap is). And John wondered why he wasn’t more grateful to be mentioned.

Sherlock switches the phone on, and immediately a voice alert pops up. The Greenwhich pips. Well, the pips minus one short signal. That might be relevant. Or not. 

John’s unimpressed. “Is that it?” he queries.

There is more. A photo. A photo of a place Sherlock knows very, very well. Stalker, indeed. And one that has already hit closer that the sleuth is comfortable with. One with bombing tendencies. Well, he wanted a case, didn’t he? Now he’s got one. One he can’t afford not to solve.

Of course. Lestrade misses everything of importance, and complains of being entirely lost. But that’s expected of him. Sherlock explains it for the dimwitted. “It’s a warning.”

“A warning?” Apparently, the dimwitted include John. Sherlock doesn’t know why he’d expected him to realize. Probably because he expected the soldier to have a sixth sense for coming danger. All this is putting the detective on edge, and he thought John would be, too.

“Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that. Five pips. They’re warning us it’s gonna happen again,” the detective reveals. Lestrade at least should have known that. A bit of knowledge about criminal history would do him good. Nothing’s ever new. “And I’ve seen this place before,” he adds. Of course he has. It’s close – too close. They wouldn’t have harmed Mrs. Hudson while he’s been following this trail, would they? They can’t. It’s worth checking on her, though.

He’s already moving to leave, when John – even while following – interrupts his inner worrying. “Hang on,” the doctor stammers, seeming uneasy (catching up finally, John?) “what’s gonna happen again?”

Well, what can that mean? Do they really have to wonder about it? Why is everyone so slow? Of course, there’s only one thing that can be coming. “Boom!” Sherlock replies. Is that clear enough for the moronic lot he’s been saddled with? They have to _move_ before Mrs. H. gets blown apart.      

             


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Nothing mine of course. A.N. This month is John’s turn, since he missed last update. Hopefully we’ll go back to normal from next month.

John never thought anyone would read his blog. I mean, Ella maybe, but she makes her job out of not judging people, and Harry, probably, the odd moments she is sober enough, looking for something to tease him with. That should be all. Which is why he hasn’t thought twice before talking about Sherlock or revealing his failings.

He’s still calling him ‘the madman’ or ‘my flatmate’ or ‘ S. Holmes’ on the blog because he’s not ready to face Harry thinking he’s found * his * Sherlock and trying to explain to her that no, he has not, _really,_ for crying out loud. (And that he’s still not mentioned the name would tell her all she needs to know if she were sober long enough.) He didn’t think he was slandering the sleuth.

But it seems that the yarders are a nosy bunch and they know perfectly well who John’s flatmate is and apparently the juicy info about Sherlock’s shortcomings was all they were waiting for in their life. John has never felt as bad as when Sally bloody Donovan dared to laugh at his brilliant flatmate, but he shuts up. He has certainly done enough already. Anything on his part could only worsen the situation.

He resolves to apologise to his flatmate later on, when they have a moment of peace. And to add a link to Sherlock’s own blog on his own. Harry won’t bother to follow it, hopefully, but since his blog has more readers than he credited himself with maybe one of them will do so and offer Sherlock a case. That would be pleasurable enough to make his flatmate forgive him – maybe.

Well, all that will come after this case. He can’t believe that one of his readers is guilty, but evidence seems to point at things being indeed like that. Does this mean that everything that happened – everything that will happen – wouldn’t have if John hadn’t chosen to talk about Sherlock and being involved in a case? (But how could he not talk about the first thing that has made him feel finally alive since he’s been shipped home?)

It’s a horrifying thought. The explosion could have killed Sherlock. For one dreadful moment of panic, this morning, he’d thought it had, and felt absolutely sick with it. Thankfully, adrenaline had taken over then and rushed him back home, to find him without a single scratch. The sleuth must have one utterly capable guardian angel – or the greatest amount of luck John has ever seen. (The doctor is so very grateful for that.)

Now Sherlock is leading them back home. So the threatened flat is close to their home, too? What does this unknown bomber want? Destroy everything close before zeroing in 221B? It irks John. Why doesn’t she (she? Really? He thought graphology was a pseudoscience) try to attack them openly? John would know how to counteract being assaulted. He would be able to protect his flatmate.

(Then again, considering how bored Sherlock was just yesterday, a criminal vying for his attention like this should be a dream come true. The detective will probably try to face it on his own – and John won’t let him, of course.)

Then finally they’re home and Sherlock clamours for their landlady and the key to the basement. John wasn’t even aware that they had a basement (not that he has anything to store there – his worldly possessions aren’t that bulky).

Mrs. Hudson is her usual, nattering self, bemoaning the damp of the place that stopped her from being able to rent it.  The fact that someone opened the lock to it unbeknownst to her doesn’t seem to scare their landlady half as much as it should. “It can’t be,” she protests. She really should know better than dispute the sleuth’s words.

John is glad when Lestrade shuts the door on her chatter. (Has their criminal come _this_ close already? Fuck!) Finally, they see the same room that was in that mysterious photo. It is, indeed, their basement. Unmistakably so. There’s one single difference from the photo they received – and it’s such an incongruous, ridiculous thing that John has to point it out. “Shoes.” Someone broke in their basement to leave there a single pair of shoes. That’s quite…anticlimactic, isn’t it? And mildly deranged. And just…odd. But maybe…

When Sherlock beelines towards the foreign object, John holds out a hand to stop him. “He’s a bomber, remember,” he reminds him quietly. The area seems clear, but explosives are so easy to hide nowadays, and that’s obvious bait and John’s instincts are flaring. This seems absurd – almost a practical joke (a joke involving bombs) – but it’s not the time to relax.

Thankfully the detective heeds his warning, stopping and then moving more slowly and carefully. Better. It appeases Captain Watson who’s remembering all the people he’s seen rent apart by explosives – those he managed to put back together and those he couldn’t – and isn’t at all keen on witnessing more of the same. (If one explosion occurs, he hopes it’s big. One that would take out all of them. If he has to see one more person – if he has to see _Sherlock_ – taken out by some sort of mine, he’s not sure that his sanity will hold.) 

 Still, when he crouches down to examine the trainers and his phone – the pink phone – rings loudly, John’s nerves shake, even if he doesn’t show it at all. Sherlock puts it on speakerphone, and John is glad. He doesn’t think that he would stand the suspense of trying to deduce the other side of conversation from the sleuth’s answers. (Not that he would be able to do so. And not just because this particular discussion turns out to be…peculiar to say the least).

The doctor exchange a deeply puzzled look with the DI, because who in their right mind would deliver, “Hello, sexy,” while sobbing her heart out. Nothing matches. Nothing makes sense. And Sherlock’s caught in the middle of it.

“I’ve sent a little puzzle just to say hi,” the same tearful voice adds. So it’s really their bomber. One who knows Sherlock well, if she tempts him with explosives and puzzles. But why is she crying? Isn’t this what she wants to do? The detective asks her, too, the reason of her tears, as well as who’s talking.

One never gets answered, but the reply to the other chills John to the bone. “I’m not crying, I’m typing, and this stupid bitch is reading it out.” What is their bomber doing? Explosives, kidnapping an innocent woman – all for the sake of ‘saying hi’ to his flatmate? If the coward wasn’t such a coward – if he (probably a he, John decides, despite the calligraphy and the choice of speaker – not many women are that comfortable with bombs) dared to face them, John would settle things with remarkable swiftness, in the DI’s presence or not.

And then his flatmate shocks him, because oh-so-softly Sherlock remarks, “The curtain rises.”

“What?” John queries sharply. That poor woman is terrified, and crying, and this is not – not some sort of show. This is a madman who hasn’t killed anyone still only for sheer lucky chance, and such a trend is too good to hold for long.

Sherlock tries to deny his words having any importance, but John won’t let him. “No, what did you mean?” he insists. He needs to know whatever his flatmate is thinking. How can he even work with the man if he doesn’t know what is going through his head  - how he’s likely to act.

“I’ve been expecting this for some time,” the sleuth confesses. Has he now? A word of warning would have been nice. Does this mean that Sherlock knows who their criminal is? Can they catch him then? John loves working cases with Sherlock, but this rubs him in all the wrong ways. He wishes it would already be behind them.

With a deadline and a half-childish, half-seductive line, the call ends. Sherlock takes the trainers. “Come on, John!” he calls. He’s enthusiastic over the case – the puzzle – as always but this time John can’t help but think that he’s too happy. Bomber stalkers shouldn’t make people happy. But this is Sherlock they’re talking about – he probably thinks that this is a clever way to get his attention. John doesn’t say anything, but he’s irked.

With their prize, they get to St. Bart’s, commandeering the use of the labs. Sherlock starts running a whole battery of tests on the shoes, because there must be some clue – some intentional clue, in all probability.

While they’re waiting for the results to come up, needing to see his flatmate invested not only in…the game, John queries, “So, who do you suppose it was?”

Sherlock makes a vague noise, still clearly focused on the tests.

“The woman on the phone – the crying woman,” the doctor elaborates. It’s haunting him – that someone would kidnap a poor woman to ‘play’ with his crush. What sort of person would do that?

“Oh, she doesn’t matter. She’s just a hostage. No lead there,” the sleuth dismisses his words.

Why does John even bother asking? Hoping to see him care for the innocent victim? What is to him if Sherlock is a cold-hearted bastard? And above all, why does he feel in his bones that the truth is different? (He’s probably wrong, at that. He has no evidence for his hunch, and Sherlock would blame him to no end for entertaining baseless beliefs.)

“You’re not going to be much use to her,” the detective scolds him. Well, doesn’t he know? He would love being able to do something, but until they find her what is John supposed to do? He’s not the genius. But sure as hell he wouldn’t play in their stalker’s hands if they’d ask him. Not that they do. He’s just the tag along.

Desperate to know that something is being done to foul the bomber’s plan, instead of going along with it, he asks if they’re at least tracing the call, but Sherlock states nonchalantly that their criminal is ‘too smart’ for that. It might be true, but hearing him complimenting the bomber irks John.

And then Sherlock is his usual unbelievable self. His mobile phone keeps giving text alert after text alert, and he says, “Pass me my phone.” Which John has no problem doing. Only that the phone is in the sleuth’s own jacket which _he’s wearing_.

Now, if it was anyone else, John would take it as a flirting move – a sort of, “Please put your hands on me,” message, and would react accordingly with much gusto. Only this is Mr. Married-to-my-work now in the midst of said work and certainly not looking for a fling (he’s _not_ , and you don’t even want him to, so John stop that line of thought this instant).

He’s considering himself a surgeon and you’re his nurse there to pass him things. Just that. Irritated with his metaphorical demotion, the bloody git’s incredible laziness and his own confused feelings, John is rougher in his handling of Sherlock (of the jacket, that is) than he would normally be, and the detective scolds him sharply. Without even bothering to look up.

John would love to tell him that he’s not his bloody nurse, but instead he informs the sleuth that the texts come from Mycroft. Considering the relationship between the brothers, it’s perhaps a better way to annoy Sherlock. Case in point, the detective orders him to delete them.

The doctor’s reluctant. He remembers the elder Holmes insisting that it was a matter of national importance, and after all, anything that would distract Sherlock from doing what his stalker (as John privately terms it) wants from him seems like a good thing. You don’t just give into what these kind of people ask – but Sherlock seems only too glad to do so. In fact, his only comment is, “Why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?”

John burns with something – not jealousy, he firmly tells himself. Still, he’s almost nauseous with the distaste. “Try and remember that there’s a woman here who might die,” he scolds. This ‘delightfully interesting’ person is evil, Sherlock, for the love of God. You can’t like him! He doesn’t say this, but it’s clearly implied.

The sleuth’s only reaction is to sneer at him for caring, deeming it useless. He’s wilfully misunderstanding him, too. John doesn’t want him to get emotional – he’s been a surgeon in war, he knows everything about not letting your emotions get in the way of your work – but caring about the lives in the balance is different. Caring about people motivates you. Doesn’t Sherlock know? John wants to believe he does. That he’s not as unfeeling as he wants to pretend to be. Before he can object, or tell him that pretending not to care won’t help him or anyone, their test results finally come, effectively ending the conversation.

Molly comes in at that moment too, finding Sherlock enthusiastic about his results, and hot on her trail is a new face. “Jim” seems embarrassed and would love nothing better than slip away, but Molly doesn’t let him. She introduces him to Sherlock, and at least the man seems suitably impressed. It’s clear that Molly told him what a genius the sleuth is. John finds himself privately betting how long it will be before said genius will say something that upsets the man and he’ll have to step in to smooth things over. After all, very few people are able to withstand Sherlock’s nature (he’s pretty proud, honestly, of being one of the lucky few).              

…And then John has to introduce himself because Molly has apparently forgotten his name. This day just keeps getting better. (As if Sherlock being so responsive to his bloody bomber/stalker wasn’t enough to put him in a mood.)

Jim gravitates towards the detective like a moth in the presence of a brilliant, brilliant flame, and the doctor gives him way before the man inadvertently runs him over. After all, he understands the feeling. It’s quite natural. And then, Sherlock spares the man a glance and carelessly pronounces him gay. Wait, gay? Molly’s boyfriend? (On a different note, Sherlock just upset someone – just not Jim, who seems to show no reaction to just having been outed – if that’s even true. John usually wouldn’t dream to doubt the sleuth, but Jim seems such a nice, normal bloke.)

Oddly for him, at Molly’s outraged reaction, instead of pointing out the evidence only he can see, Sherlock retreats and tries to be behave – be polite to the man, though it’s so false it hurts John to watch. Jim is still in full fanboy mode despite the accusation, smiling and awkward.

So awkward that he upsets the things on the table, making a metal dish fall to the floor. John facepalms for him. Shouldn’t Molly’s boyfriend know how to behave on a laboratory? Thank God that the thing wasn’t breakable at least. Still, the man is confirming his friend’s deep-seated conviction that everyone is an idiot. Some more than others, John guesses.

The doctor can’t help but be relieved when the man announces his leaving. This whole interlude has been a mix of ridiculous and uncomfortable that John is eager to see end. Only that it seems Sherlock has exhausted his quota of politeness for the day, because when Jim tells him goodbye the sleuth, entirely engrossed in the analysis of some specimen or another, does not look up or respond or show to have noticed him in any other way. The usual Sherlock, then, but Jim is not accustomed to his habits and is lingering in the room. A painfully embarrassing silence stretches, until John takes it on himself to answer on Sherlock’s stead. It’s his purpose, isn’t it? Or part of it. To smooth things over for the detective. Jim blinks at him, like he’d forgotten his existence, but finally leaves.

As soon as he’s out of the door, Molly goes back to questioning the very important (to her at least) matter of her boyfriend’s sexual orientation. And the sleuth’s first reaction is to tell her that she’s put on weight. John can’t help but wonder if Sherlock is in a mood because he doesn’t like the results he found and hence _wants_ to upset her.

When Molly tries to defend herself and Sherlock insists on his (probably right, to be honest) assessment of her weight gain, John tries to warn him. The detective might be secretly irritated at the moment, but John is sure that he will regret hurting Molly later. After all, she’s a friend. And she really doesn’t deserve any of this.

And then, finally, Sherlock gives into what he must have been itching to do all this time and declares the evidence for his ‘gay’ diagnose. To which John actually tries to object, because saying Jim’s grooming makes him gay is going along with ridiculous stereotypes, isn’t it? He really expected better from the detective. John conditions his hair, but that doesn’t make him gay. (His own flatmate might be making him a little bi, if anything, but better not to indulge in these thoughts before Sherlock reads it off him – the man has the uncanny ability to read his thoughts sometimes).

But the sleuth insists on his evaluation of the man, because apparently the brand of  Jim’s underwear is telling. And just what would make his married-to-my-work friend research brands of underwear, John ponders idly. Past case? Or does Sherlock occasionally cheat on the Work? It doesn’t matter, he reminds himself briskly, because he’s decided not to follow the lure of the Right Name, no matter how tempting it is…but it could matter. Oh, it _could_ matter. In a different universe, maybe.                                               

Before either Molly or John can question his underwear knowledge, the detective plays his ace. Jim wasn’t painfully awkward before. He was, in fact, quite clever (not enough for Sherlock to cheat during a case, but afterwards…who knows). While upsetting the dish, with a move worthy of a conjurer, he’s left his number to the sleuth. You can’t really object to that kind of prove. Understandably upset, Molly runs away, near tears. And Sherlock has the gall to look startled by it. Really, the man.

John can’t contain one sarcastic, “Well done,” because that’s what Sherlock wanted right? To make her cry? Only John learns that he very much didn’t mean to – he wasn’t even irritated and searching an outlet as the doctor had surmised. The sleuth thought he was being ‘kind’. It would be worse if she knew after (because) some other bloke had accepted Jim’s avances, surely. The blogger educates his apparently clueless flatmate (that’s what he’s for). “No, no, Sherlock. That wasn’t kind.” Such dismissive, clinical, cruel words can’t be termed ‘kind’ by any stretch of the imagination.

He really hopes Sherlock will take the lesson to heart but there’s little chance of it. Instead of saying he’d apologize to Molly, or acknowledge it in any way, the sleuth changes topic entirely. Asking John to deduce the bloody trainers, of all things. Of course, the doctor refuses to. He might be demoted to nurse, but he won’t be demoted to plaything. He can only make a fool of himself – he doesn’t have Sherlock’s abilities, shoes are just shoes to him, what the hell is he even supposed to say.

With the way Sherlock treats Anderson and any not genius involved in the investigations, it’s clear that he would scoff at John’s attempt, cut him down with a few choice words (did he want to make Molly cry after all? Does he want to upset John too?).

But Sherlock’s asking for a ‘second opinion’, insisting that it’d be ‘very useful’ (as if) and as always when the man is involved, John caves in eventually. He’s so punching the man if the sleuth tries to insult him at the end though. To be fair, the detective is very kind, coaxing him with praises all throughout it.

John desperately wants to please. He wants to show the man that he can be, if not very useful, at least not an idiot. Good for more than passing things (and maybe if he proves himself Sherlock will heed some of his suggestions). Each murmured word of approval encourages him to make more hypotheses, (he’s not even sure his can be termed deductions) until, sadly, he’s obligated to admit that he’s reached his limit. There’s nothing more he can glean from the bloody shoes. “How did I do?” he queries, worried like he’d only been by the strictest of teachers.

“Well, John, really well,” Sherlock reassures him, before going on to say, “I mean, you missed almost everything of importance, but, um, you know –”

Exactly what John expected (the reason he hadn’t wanted to do this in the first place) but at least Sherlock’s acknowledging that he’s trying and not humiliating him for the sake of humiliating. He seems almost sorry that he has to disparage John’s efforts.

John doesn’t see the point of this. I mean, didn’t Sherlock know he would have botched this? What did he expect from him? He can’t possibly imagine that John is at his level, does he? That would be incredibly flattering, but it’s simply impossible. So what was the point of this? Is he training John? (Which would be an honour, but out of character for him. Sherlock doesn’t bother with idiots.)

John lets his worries go because he’s treated to deduction-show again (though how Sherlock can possibly know how many things the laces have been changed is beyond him – well, all of Sherlock’s deductions are beyond him). He doesn’t expect the sleuth to say that the shoes are twenty years old. They _seem_ new. Someone had them perfectly preserved. Sherlock tells him a story about a Sussex-born kid coming to London and leaving behind his favourite trainers. Even while he asks what happened to the boy, John knows the answer. This kind of care for something that’s not even your own shoes – to have them in perfect condition  twenty years later – means that they’re a trophy. They’re dealing with a bomber, kidnapper…child kidnapper? Or worse? John doesn’t want to think of murdered children.                                            

Then Sherlock seems to have a sort of revelation, because he softly utters a name. The owner of the trainers? It can’t possibly be – not even Sherlock can deduce bloody names, surely. He failed to know that Harry was a nickname, at least. But his friend is definitely onto something, and John wants to know what. His friend’s only explanation is, “It’s where I began.” Which doesn’t explain anything, and only wets John’s appetite for information. Where Sherlock began what? His detective career? There’s definitely a story behind this. One he wants to know.

So he asks. And asks again. He’s interested in Sherlock’s first experiences (first cases, that is). Until, in the back of a cab, the sleuth finally caves in and tells him. Nineteen eighty-nine, tragic swimming accident at a sports tournament. Drowning. A swimming champion. No surprise that Sherlock thought something was fishy about it. The disappeared trainers might have something to do with the killing method.

Unsurprising, too, that the police didn’t hear out Sherlock at the time. He would have been…what, eight years old? An extraordinarily clever eight years old, for sure, but the police wouldn’t have a way to know that.

The sleuth says he ‘made a fuss’ and John can just imagine him. A curly haired, bright eyed kid, going over to Scotland Yard to make his point, yelling and whining and insulting the inspector in charge of the case. And Mycroft scolded for not having minded his brother and having let him sneak off to Scotland Yard in the first place when their parents got the call saying to come take back their wayward child before they throw him in a cell to teach him some manners.

Sherlock is sure that these missing shoes have resurfaced now. Since their bomber already hinted at past cases with the pink phone, his friend’s hypothesis might very well be true. But that’d mean that his stalker is stalking the sleuth since decades ago. Or that he found the killer of Carl Powers and bought the trophy out of him. Both are creepy thoughts. 

Once they get at the flat, the sleuth is still concentrated on Carl Powers, and John feels more useless than ever. “Can I help?” he queries. He wouldn’t mind passing things now. Anything but watching his flatmate and feeling utterly useless. John’s never reacted well to being useless. “I want to help,” he insists. He’s not begging for something to do, but he’s dangerously close to it. Really, the best thing he can probably do is shut up and let Sherlock think, but he wants to feel as if he’s doing at least something beyond staring.

And then he gets distracted by Mycroft’s texts. On his own mobile phone this time. (How did Mycroft find out his number? Oh, who’s he kidding, the man controls the bloody cctv, finding a number is nothing at all). Still, what does Mycroft want from him? It’s not like he can influence Sherlock. Especially when he’s in case mode. Still… “He did say ‘national importance’,” he remarks. It’s not even that he wants to distract Sherlock from his stalker bomber. He’s just worried. Over everything. If Mycroft came to Sherlock, normal MI6 probably won’t be able to do anything.

The sleuth disparages him for his concerns (that’s not old-fashioned; of course John will worry about what could endanger the whole nation), but then promises him, “I’m not ignoring it. Putting my best man on it right now.”

“Good,” John breathes in relief. But then one harrowing doubt eats at him. “Who’s that?” he queries. He sure hopes that’s not Raz. The kid would be wholly inadequate to deal with the matter, and it’s the only man he’s seen Sherlock collaborate with to date.

“My esteemed colleague,” Sherlock replies.

Oh God, there are more consulting detectives? John is mildly scared by the prospect. What kind of man could that be? “And his name is?” he queries softly.

Sherlock looks at him like he does to people that are being purposefully obtuse – that is, with total despise. “Have you already forgotten the Blind Banker, as you titled it?”

It’s not really Raz, is it? Because he didn’t collaborate with anyone else then… “Tell me it’s not the kid,” he begs.

“It’s the man who claimed to be my colleague. In front of our client, may I add,” Sherlock bits back, levelling him with _a look_.

“…You want _me_ to solve the case? The one of national importance Mycroft’s insisting about?” It comes out rather more like a squeak than John would like.

“I’m sure that you’ll be fully capable to handle it, John. _I trust you._ ”

Oh bugger. He’s done for. He would do anything not to have Sherlock obliged to retract such a statement.

First things first, he needs more data, like Sherlock would say. He can’t solve a case he doesn’t know about, can he? So that’s how he finds himself in an empty office (Sherlock did tell him where to go if he wanted to bother Mycroft at least), having made it past a secretary that clearly judged him underdressed without saying a word. He hasn’t tried to flirt with this one. 

Now he only needs to persuade Mycroft that he’s indeed Sherlock’s esteemed colleague, and as such it’s perfectly normal for him to be sent to collect facts. While Sherlock is already working eagerly on the case, he assures. Which is not a lie at all. He just lets him assume that the case he mentions is the one of national importance.

To be honest, Mycroft probably knows better, but he does not challenge him. He lets John fumble with his words and be uncomfortable (either not reading or not caring about the true reason) and does agree to explaining the case to him. Does he really believe that pitiful pretence that John is trying to put up? (If he does, how in the hell did he manage to get a job in politics?) Is he honestly convinced that John has taken to heart this case and will ultimately manage to sway Sherlock’s attention towards it? (As if the detective would heed his word.) Or…does he, maybe…trust John, too? (Of course not, John, let’s not be fanciful now.) Sherlock’s trust is more than enough, anyway. And now that he has his facts, it’s time for John to work at earning it. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own a thing.

He solves it with three hours to spare. Which is not bad, if you ask him. And it’s very satisfying to finally know what happened to young Carl. Clostridium botulinum. A clever solution. And it explains why the trainers had to disappear – they might have clued even these idiots cops to the fact that poison had been used. As he’d always declared, details were important. And shoes didn’t just up and leave on their own. They mattered.

 Of course, if anyone had given him the time of the day when he was young, this case might have been solved twenty years ago – and the murderer behind bars, they would have no bomber now. Which would be good, he supposed. Not for him, though – he’d still be bored then. Which would be considerably less good. Still, if he says as much he has a feeling that John will give him ‘a look’. The one he always has when Sherlock disappoints him while being a bit not good when he really should have known better. So he better keep these kind of considerations to himself.

Instead, he explains to his flatmate the murder method (of course he’s saying Carl Powers was murdered, he’s been saying it for twenty years, do keep up, John, please) and explaining why the idiots years ago wouldn’t have picked up on it. Now it’s time to win this game. He debates asking John to send a message through his blog, since the bomber is clearly a reader of the ridiculous thing, but he decides against it. Moriarty (if it’s really the criminal in question) is his fan. The challenge was clearly meant for him. The bomber can bother to check up Sherlock’s blog, too.

So it’s there that he writes a short message to the bomber. He mentions Carl Powers’ name and the way he was murdered. See? He’s solved this case. Immediately he receives his prize: a new call, with permission to ‘get’ the crying woman. He texts the information to Lestrade. John would certainly think they’re not adequately prepared to deal with bombs (and he’d be half-right) but above all, he doesn’t want to deal with the snivelling lady. He certainly doesn’t want her gratitude, which she’s certain to try to heap on her ‘saviours’. He didn’t solve this for her, after all. He’s doing this because he’s high on the challenge – it’s such an interesting case! – and partially because he hopes to earn some more of John’s awed praise, if he’s entirely honest.           

The morning after sees them at Scotland Yard, discussing the bomber’s modus operandi. Lestrade’s sharing the data he has (of course he’s sharing – he has no hope to solve this on his own, obviously, and anyway the bomber wants him to be involved in this investigation – very much so). The hostage would have been blown up if she had deviated from script.

“Or if you hadn’t solved the case,” John points out sharply. (Ridiculous! How could he not solve the case? This case in particular? He had half-solved it at eight, for crying out loud.)

He takes a moment to admire the organization of it all, from the grab-your-attention explosion in Baker Street to setting up such an elaborate way to communicate, to the challenge itself. It takes effort; cleverness; a bit of obsession that Sherlock is unused to and flattered by, even if he shouldn’t. In a word, it’s… “Elegant,” he breathes.

John is very displeased, echoing his word with a tinge of outrage. But this _is_ elegant. A new way to woo for someone’s attention. Why doesn’t he see? What makes him so angry? Oh, it doesn’t matter. He’ll placate John later, somehow. (It shouldn’t even matter that he’s angry, but it does. Oh, it does. Teen Sherlock is unreasonably dejected – and so very worried John will start hating him now, too.)

Lestrade, instead, is concentrate on working – and querying about motives. Of course, understanding them goes a long way towards reading one’s actions and capturing them.

“I can’t be the only person in the world that gets bored,” the sleuth replies, unconcerned. This isn’t done for the usual reasons – rage, envy, money, sex. Well, maybe there’s a sexual undercurrent in that – but it’s nothing simple like a jilted lover acting up. This is all an extremely elaborate game – and playing is something one does to relieve boredom, yes?

About the game, first round has been passed, and it’s now time for the next. The detective is so glad to hear the warning of incoming message. One less pip, so they’re looking forward to four other rounds. So good. And again, a photo –of an abandoned car.          

And then Donovan, being her usual charming self (would it kill her to be professional once?) offers him the phone. He expected a call, of course. But on the pink phone the bomber had provided, not at Scotland Yard. Is he trying to make the point that he knows everything about Sherlock – where the sleuth is at any given moment? That doesn’t surprises him – it’s clear that the criminal is interested in him, being spied was to be expected. He just hopes that no one else will get involved. Like Mrs. Hudson (how easy would it have been for her to be threatened when the madman had gone to 221C). Or John (one of the reason he’s given Mycroft’s case to him – to make him not involved in all this as much as possible).

Sherlock obtains permission from his criminal to collaborate with the police. As if he wouldn’t – he might enjoy this game a bit, if he’s completely honest with himself,  but he’s not entirely insensate: the aim will always be to put his admirer behind solid bars (unless John gets too excited and shoots him down once again – in which case he might have to explain that they’re consulting detectives, not vigilantes). 

A compliment, a threat – it’s all the same for his adversary, clearly. He ignores Sherlock’s questions, mostly, and goes on with his pre-planned little speech. And challenges the detective to beat his own records, like this is really a game for him. Solved last case in nine hours, now he has eight. And a young man as his prize. That’s incentive enough – he’s going to solve this. Not disappoint everyone and cause who knows how many victims to be killed (the bomber is generous with the explosives’ amount, if he keeps to pattern).

Lestrade can be counted on to find the car, at least, and accompany Sherlock to the crime scene. (Of course this is a crime scene – last one was a murder, and apparently the bomber likes to admire him in his crime solving.)

If only Lestrade could act alone, but no, there are forensics that will obviously miss all the important points…and Donovan. What is Donovan doing here, exactly? Does Lestrade have no other underlings? (Everyone hates Sherlock, to be fair. It wouldn’t make much of a difference).

But Donovan isn’t just disagreeable, no. She thinks she knows better (as if she has some sort of moral high ground, considering her own life choices). That she can look out for people. Look out for John, that is. By making him leave Sherlock’s side. Which might be indeed best for John in the long run, as much as it pains Sherlock to admit it if only to himself (though he doesn’t want that to happen, oh please no – “He can’t,” Teen Sherlock whines from his prison).

Thank God that the sergeant is a terrible judge of character (that can’t help in her chosen career). She nudges John to pick a safer pastime. But John doesn’t want safe – he’s never wanted safe. He got kidnapped, was bound, and still managed to save his date _and_ Sherlock. If he hasn’t run away after that, it’s because he loved it (not being kidnapped per se – just…the adventure).  (And Sherlock is on a case and playing a game, he should be examining the twice bloody car, not eavesdropping what inanities Donovan comes up with. He needs to stop being so focused on John.)

True to form, instead of giving Sally’s well-meaning suggestions a moment of thought, John is by his side when Sherlock faces the disappeared man’s wife. Now, time to play his part. John hasn’t still been private to Sherlock’s acting talent – not that the sleuth needs to act for John, who likes him as he is (and isn’t that incredible). Before his blogger can give away the game – he’s taken over without asking, as dealing with teary people isn’t usually something Sherlock would know how to deal with without hurting them worse, in all likelihood – the detective cuts him off.

At least John doesn’t object his claims or snickers when a puzzled woman remarks how his husband never mentioned Sherlock’s name. He’s probably too shocked by his friend’s performance to do so. Hopefully not shocked in a bad way, though, or starting to wonder if everything Sherlock does is a careful act. Then again, he probably realizes that if Sherlock really acted all the time, he would probably spare people’s feelings a lot more than he does. Will John call him brilliant again? Maybe clap, like he was watching a play?...Why is a tiny part of Sherlock’s brain busy wondering – hoping (and hope never ends well for him) for – this even while most of it is analysing the woman’s answers and bodily cues to figure out what she knows? He might miss things that way. The sleuth is ruined. Entirely ruined by his friend’s existence. (And yet he won’t give that up).

It turns out that John is not really shocked – but he certainly looks puzzled by Sherlock’s behaviour. Once he explains, though, he accepts it without commenting how his ability and willingness to manipulate people is a sure sign of psychopathy, or evilness, or both (you should have seen Donovan when she saw him do that to a witness for the first time). Which it isn’t. Maybe it’s a sign of sociopathy, to which the sleuth has always admitted.

By the way, the sergeant is still on a roll and keeps suggesting ‘safe’ pastimes. Dull ones. Ones that would make both John and Sherlock want to claw their eyes out in sheer boredom after half an hour.

They don’t care about her, though. Sherlock explains what they’ve gleaned from his unusual form of interrogation, and John is…well, the odd thing is that he’s still being his usual slow self that would normally make Sherlock despise people and react impatiently against their idiocy, but this is John.

So when he says, “I see. No, I don’t. What am I seeing?” the sleuth doesn’t have to quell the urge to yell at him to use his brain, for once, or to make an effort to keep up. Instead, he quashes the instinct to chuckle fondly at John being cute again. (Idiocy has never been cute – what’s happening to him? Is he getting ill?) Because if he had to explain _why_ he’s laughing he’ll argue with John – again (of course the doctor would take offense, even if none is meant) – and he really, really doesn’t want to.

Next they’re going after the car hire company. John is still, always, faithfully by his side. It will never stop to surprise Sherlock a bit – and give Teen Sherlock the sort of fuzzy feelings that he should really keep to himself. The detective has no need of them, when he’s solving a case. Though they’re indeed nice…

It’s entirely ridiculous, how the car renter thinks he can fool Sherlock. This one is not a follower of John’s blog, or he wouldn’t even try to fib so pitifully. Sunbeds, really? Ones that require shots to be used? Of course, the itching could be related to a different medical condition, but since he can’t ask John to examine the man to check for the cause, he’ll have to find other ways of confirming the man’s time abroad.

Another one of his little tricks, and the hypothesis is confirmed. Now, what does this tell us? Apart that Mr. Ewert needs to get better at fibbing under pressure if he wants to be able to sustain a lover outside the random encounters he undoubtedly indulges in when outside the country. What was he doing in Columbia, and is this related to the disappearance they’re investigating?

If it wasn’t, why would he deny the holiday? Anyhow, there’s something fishy around the man, that begs further enquiries. Hopefully it will be related to the case, because beyond the literally bloody car they have no clues. Yes, the wife knows something, but she won’t confess without stronger methods of persuasion than Lestrade can allow, so no opening there.

He supposes he should be grateful, but getting hints by their bomber irks him. Does the criminal not think that he can solve this without some sort of handicap? He is already on his way to understand it all, there’s no need to give him clues. He hated when Mycroft did that, the first times they played deductions together, too. But the bomber’s bored, he says. Eager to get to bigger and better challenges, no doubt. New games. That, Sherlock can relate to (and it should worry him, perhaps). Easily bored, impatient? That’s him, too.

Then the killer adds something that actually stops the detective in his experimenting. “We are the very definition of soulmates, Sherlock.” Could that be true? “Are not!” Teen Sherlock protests vehemently, but as all his assertions, this too is entirely baseless. He trusts hunches; _feelings_. Has this man done any research? Has he evidence for his statement?...Could this bored madman really be his soulmate? His much yearned for John? The detective represses a shiver.

“What makes you say that?” he queries, very softly and not a little afraid. What will his flatmate think if his soulmate is a homicidal maniac?

“Everything will be revealed in time. Enjoy the ride.” With that, the call ends.

“Not John,” Teen Sherlock insists sulkily from the attic. The sleuth so hopes he could trust him. Now, back to work. It would be just like his stalker to say such unsettling things only to shake the detective, make him lose time pondering over that and, instead of offering a hint, ensuring he loses the game this time. Maybe it’s just that. Yeah, that. Just because they’re both bored, it doesn’t make him anyone’s soulmate. That’d be just silly.

Well, if that is the ploy, it fails. He does solve it – with three hours to spare. He hopes that the bomber won’t keep asking him to better his record, though. He has solved cases in considerably less time, of course. But the challenges this one proposes are never so easy to be solved at first glance (at least, he hopes better from his unknown admirer) and his experiments need some time for the reactions to occur, so he’s a bit worried that he won’t be able to better his record five times. At least this young man, though, is saved, and their supposed victim is well too.

Relocated to Colombia, in fact, to escape from the troubles he’d have undoubtedly faced. Not a good person, dear old Ian. People who feel the need to escape from their life by unlawful means usually aren’t. Embezzlement, perhaps? Fled before he could be discovered? Or something even worse? Who knows – who cares. The man is safe in South America now, and if Lestrade wants to pursue him it’s not his concern. Sherlock has better things to think about. Three pips still pending. A courtship perfectly tailored for him that fascinates him as much as it makes his blood run cold. (It can’t be…can it? “Don’t be ridiculous now! Of course he’s not!” Teen Sherlock interjects from his exile.)

 

This case is worrying John. One thing is facing murderers, smugglers, assorted reasonable criminals. People who have simple motives, and who will act straightforwardly. Those he knows how to act against. Look out for Sherlock, ensure he doesn’t get poisoned – strangled – stabbed – whatever, and he can rest easy. But this criminal is playing with them. Playing with Sherlock. And the detective seems all too eager to let himself be swept up by such a dangerous ploy. Now, John loves danger as much as the next bloke (and probably a lot more, to be honest) but when people start treating innocent lives like pawns in a deranged contest most of the pleasure is lost to him. 

Sherlock, instead, seems all too receptive. Thank God that the detective’s soulmate is already dead, and that he himself told John as much, or he would worry that the man’s boisterous claim might be true. (That’s entirely tasteless, too. You don’t just say “We’re soulmates,” lightly. Or without checking if at least the other person has at least your bloody name on his wrist, too.) The following morning, while forcing Sherlock to eat something (this is going to be a long case, and even the sleuth can’t subsist on tea and adrenaline forever), John tries to warn him about taking things too lightly. Reminding him that he’s toyed with. Sherlock smiles back, assures him that he’s well aware of that, and chases the doctor’s worries away with a wave of his violinist hands.

And then he’s given a new puzzle – oh, he must love this. New day, new game. Does it even matter to him that an old, sweet, blind woman is being threatened with explosives right now, John wonders bitterly. Of course he cares…right? He’s not a psychopath himself, no matter what some people think. John knows better. (Does he?)

How passionately the doctor hates the insane bastard that’s doing this…to Sherlock? For Sherlock? Against Sherlock? Whatever is the right word? He wishes he could meet him. It would take him a second to shoot the bloody mongrel down like a rabid dog, and he’d lose no sleep after it.

He can’t yet, but at least he can be useful. It’s no surprise that the photo is entirely meaningless to Sherlock. If John didn’t spend entirely too much time together with Mrs. Hudson, the days he has no work and the detective scampers off to do some experiment that requires Molly’s equipment, for a change, he wouldn’t know either. Probably their criminal expects them to have no idea, too, since he gave them a whole twelve hours. Instead, thanks to their landlady interest in makeup advice (one would think that she doesn’t need any), John recognizes the woman immediately. They’ve gained time. He’s confident that Sherlock will be able to solve this one, too. He has a long time to work it out, after all. The old, blind woman should be reasonably safe.           

Then they’re off to Bart’s – together with Lestrade, who’s as eager to catch this damn bomber as them – and once again, John can be useful. He examines the body, answers Sherlock’s questions and arrives to the conclusion the sleuth expects, given the bomber’s involvement. This is no mere accidental death. She’s been killed. Sherlock asks for his help and John is so grateful for it. There’s a nasty voice inside him, wondering if the detective does even need his collaboration. He needs data, of course, but couldn’t he find them as well – maybe even better – without involving John? He shuts that whispering voice out firmly. Now is not the time to doubt himself. Now he needs to give Sherlock whatever he asks for.

Of course, if Sherlock could stop joking about the situation John would be considerably less irked about it. ‘Bad Samaritan?’ This mad game is not something to jest about. If only the detective took it as seriously as Lestrade, John’s teeth wouldn’t grind in an effort to control his aimless (well, not aimless – very aimed, but with no hope to reach his target yet) rage. But no, the sleuth is loving this, clearly. John wonders why their bomber makes him so very – indecently – happy, (hopefully it’s just the challenge Sherlock relishes, but it scares him that he can’t be sure). If their criminal knows that, and that’s the reason he believes himself to be Sherlock’s soulmate. (Which is really dead, isn’t he – or she? The sleuth would have no reason to lie to him, would he?)

John is on the way to Connie Prince’s house when he gets a text from Sherlock. _He’s still calling. I think he’s courting me. He told me I love joining the dots. Well, who wouldn’t? SH_ The detective doesn’t need any emoticon to convey how bloody annoyed he is. 

Before John can answer. Another message arrives. _John, how do I make him stop calling? And texting? I can’t work if he interrupts me just when I think I’m getting somewhere. SH_

_I don’t know. Maybe that’s exactly what he wants – stopping you from figuring it out. Don’t let him!_ The doctor replies, growing worried.

_Do not worry, I won’t. And he’s not trying to get me to lose – I don’t think. He’s just showing off –that’s the whole point of this game, I think. All the things he can do – to keep me entertained, I guess. Which is delightful in a way, but I don’t want him. He’s not my soulmate. SH_ John receives then, and the last line squeezes his heart painfully. Sherlock doesn’t want anyone who isn’t his soulmate, and he’s lost him/her. Has he even gotten to know the person before he lost it? Would that be better or worse?

_I know. Your soulmate is dead. You told me already. I’m sorry by the way._ That’s what he replies.

_Why? It’s not your fault. SH_ Typical Sherlock, this.

_If you had them by your side, maybe Moriarty would leave you alone. Also, there’s a thing called empathy_ he writes.

_More probably he would kill them. Getting back to work now. SH._

_Good._ The doctor replies. He is, too. They should be almost there.

He can’t help being ill at ease when faced with the victim’s brother. He’s not used to shamming his way through things like Sherlock apparently is, and not really sure how to behave with people who might be murderers but might be honestly grieving, too. At least before Sherlock he knew which were the enemies and which not. Now things have gotten so confusing. Not to mention that Kenny Prince (and whoever calls his scions Kenny and Connie? They almost rhyme!) is filthy rich, and John feels always a bit ill at ease in these situations. It won’t stop him from doing his best to help the detective, though. Sherlock counts on him, and John is not about to disappoint him.

Judging by the amount of platitudes he receives, he doubts that their victim will be very much missed. True grief doesn’t hide behind clichés. And if having to sit through this painfully awkward and idiotic conversation isn’t enough, one of the ugliest and creepiest cats in the universe (what possessed the owner to buy it?) is determined to be affectionate with John. Or it has simply decided that the sofa is its and the human is to be considered only as an oddly shaped additional cushion. Kicking the family pet would probably be more than a bit not good, so the doctor has to resign himself ultimately to the thing’s attentions. At least it’s purring.

There is worse yet to come – the victim’s brother comes sit beside him, a bit too close for John’s tastes. No one in this bloody home has any sense of personal space, have they? Now he only needs the house boy on his other side, and the game “Let’s try to make John Watson uncomfortable” will be won. The cat, irritated by that, gets up and leaves. While he’s trying to comfort a probable murderer, or at least to make this less painfully awkward without blowing his cover, one detail sticks out to John, almost like the time he realized Sherlock had followed a serial killer. He could very well have discovered, if not the murderer, at least the weapon. Sherlock will be proud of him, won’t he?

He’s supposed to be asking questions – his cover as journalist allowing him to gather data for the detective without looking suspicious. He queries a couple of things – generic things, which no one probably cares about – then hurriedly excuses himself for a second. Closed in the bathroom, he calls the detective, his voice barely above a whisper. Instead of praising him for his deduction, the sleuth promises to arrive soon, as he wants to see things for himself. Which is probably better. He might figure it out who used the cat as a murder weapon (clever, that). He goes back to announce the arrival of a colleague. Kenny Prince looks very pleased with that. He really likes being the one in the spotlight for once, uh?

Sherlock arrives quickly, with all the equipment to pretend he is a photographer. He never gets around to make use of that and give John another demonstration of his acting talent – which is, honestly, astounding. For a moment, John regrets that the sleuth didn’t pick that as a career. His stalker wouldn’t feel the need to strap people to bombs if Sherlock wasn’t a detective. Then again, if he weren’t a detective Sherlock would probably be helpless against a stalker that can make Scotland Yard run in circles.

But luckily, Sherlock needs only a few moments to deduce everything there is to deduce and solve the case. (Why did he even send John in the first place?) Which leaves John to make their excuses while they leave the place. And apparently it wasn’t the cat. He’d been so sure. It was clever – something Sherlock would have liked, which would have made it appropriate for their bomber’s courting. It was, it seems, a bit _too much_ clever though for their murderer. Who isn’t even the brother – another thing John would have bet good money on. But apparently he still misses something to be able to solve this.  

As far as colleagues go, John is really abysmal, isn’t he? How long before Sherlock excludes him from cases? Well, the bomber’s case they’re still doing together – John’s protective instincts are on overdrive right now and he won’t let the sleuth face this alone. Afterwards…who knows what Sherlock will decide. But if this is to become their last shared case (and with how much of an idiot as John’s proving himself, that’s entirely possible) John is going to love every minute of it till it lasts.

John won’t ever understand his flatmate. Because apparently Sherlock solved the thing ages ago – before he visited Connie’s place with him…who knows, maybe in the first five minutes (because the bomber repeated himself, which makes the sleuth sneer at him for lack of creativity – as if this is really simply a game, and one in danger of becoming boring). But he left a poor, terrified, sweet, blind old lady under threat all this time because he’d been allotted twelve hours, so why reveal he solved it already. Would he have done the same if Mrs. Hudson had been the one under threat? The sad thing is that the answer is probably yes.

But he’s doing this for the investigation. To be able to catch his mad stalker, put him behind bars and make sure he straps no one else to a bomb. Which is why John can’t even blame him much. It was a smart move. But it was a cruel move, in a way. John hoped better out of his friend.

What makes him so sure that Sherlock is better than he pretends to be? That the detective could be not only brilliant, but caring, if only he let himself be? Reason – evidence – says that the sleuth is a ruthless bastard…a ruthless, well-meaning (at least) bastard. John still refuses to accept that this is Sherlock’s true nature.

One hour to spare, and the detective announces the solution to the world (to the bomber, who’s certainly following his supposed-soulmate’s blog). Almost immediately, the pink phone rings…It’s time to get their prize and save the poor woman. But then, things suddenly go wrong.

“No,no, no…” Sherlock utters, trying to stop her from saying anything against the rules of the game. A second later, he lowers the phone, a haunted look in his eyes. John has to stop himself from hugging him in an attempt to comfort (there’s Lestrade here) – his hand wanders to the detective’s chair rather than his shoulder or back.

“What happened?” he asks, even if he suspects the truth.

“She’s dead,” the sleuth replies tonelessly. “She said…she just said his voice was soft. That’s not a clue, is it? But the bomber didn’t like it. She wasn’t supposed to say it. I knew she wasn’t supposed to say it, but she wouldn’t shut up –”

“Hey, no. It’s not your fault. Never. It’s the bloody bomber’s fault. We will catch him. He’ll pay for that,” John growls back.

“Yeah,” Lestrade agrees with vicious intensity. Then, he too receives a call, and blanches. “A dozen people,” he announces. “With how much explosive he’d packed her, she destroyed several floors. That’s it – give me something, Sherlock. Anything. We need to apprehend him _now_.”

“I’m not holding back information, Lestrade,” the detective replies, cross.

“Of course you aren’t,” the inspector sighs.

“Sherlock will figure it out. He always does,” John interjects, placating. “And you can lock him up  in a cell and throw away the key.”                  


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. A.N. Remember English is my second language and I wrote this when it was boiling hot, so if I messed grammar in Sherlock’s section forgive me please?

 John doesn’t understand his flatmate. Yesterday he seemed upset over the deaths (as he very well should be, and John – now in private – would happily comfort him). Instead, he discusses the situation so coldly this morning. Has he deleted his feelings about the matter? Is that even possible? (And why should he choose to do so? Doesn’t he know that being sad over lost lives is perfectly fine?)

John can’t believe his ears. Their bomber arranged all the crimes? Explosives, murders, vanishing… and whatever else is coming. That’s not the worst, though. The worst is that Sherlock is enchanted by the idea (his friend’s soulmate _is_ dead, right?). John would almost say he admires the undoubtedly very resourceful criminal. “Do you think he wants to be caught?” he inquires, hopeful. An even unconscious guilt could bring the madman to commit some error and be arrested sooner rather than later.

“I think he wants to be distracted,” the sleuth counters, while complaining that he’s taking longer than usual to come up with a new challenge – a new game.

John can’t help it. “He might not be your soulmate, but I’m starting to think that you two’ll be very happy together,” he mutters.

And then Sherlock turns on him – as if John is the one who’s at fault here. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he bits back sharply.  “I don’t fancy him – or anyone.” There’s a small pause before hurryingly tacking on the these last two words whose significance is entirely lost on John.   

“Could have fooled me,” the doctor grumbles. Really, what’s he doing? Having a jealous strop now because the game has become the much yearned highlight of the sleuth’s day? No, it’s not like that at all, he tells himself. The only problem is that today, Sherlock is treating it like a game, while there are actual lives at stake. Lives lost already. He reminds his friend sharply of that little detail. Exasperated, he queries why the sleuth doesn’t care about them anymore.

“I never cared about them, John,” the detective replies coldly. This is bull, John was there yesterday, but he’s too irritated to call it. Instead, he asks “Why not?”

Sherlock answers him with a question of his own, asking if caring will help save Moriarty’s victims. John has to say the truth, and as much as he’d like to answer that with a resounding yes, he admits instead that it won’t.

“Then I’ll continue not to make that mistake,” the detective states, glacial.

‘Mistake? Where did you heard it is?’ John wants to enquire, or maybe even yell, ‘Stop pretending, Christ!’ but he only grinds out, “I need air,” moving to leave.

“Fleeing from disappointment? How mature. How caring of you, when we could have news about the case at any time – I could need you to solve it, but don’t let it stop you, John. Go,” Sherlock says, stopping him on the doorstep, of course.

“I’m useless to cases, and you know that perfectly well,” the doctor replies bitterly.

“You’re not! I need your assistance, really.” the sleuth exclaims vehemently, sounding perfectly sincere – but he’s always been a very good actor, hasn’t he? “I don’t care if you’re disappointed in me, John. Keep being disappointed – and please don’t make me better than I am, you know I’m not a caring person – but stay.”

Just then the pink phone pings with a new message. “See? We have a case! Come on, John!” Sherlock exclaims enthusiastically.

“Come where?” the doctor asks, resigning himself to following the man forever – or as long as his flatmate wants it.

“Give me a moment and I’ll know.”                 

  It takes him more than a moment – and the actual collaboration of Lestrade, because this isn’t as immediate to pinpoint as the previous ones – but finally they’re going to the Thames, and there’s a body for John to examine. He’s afraid that the washed up body can’t offer much clues, even to Sherlock, who seems more worried about the lack of call from Moriarty (anything breaking the pattern is obviously cause of disquiet – John understands it) than about not being able to solve this one.

Well, John should have more faith in his genius friend, because with one of his usual perfectly logical but utterly mysterious-looking leaps, they go from murder to art forgery. He supposes it relates to what the sleuth has been researching on his phone.

From forgery they leap again, to horror stories of all things, but before John can became seriously lost Sherlock explains he’s simply talking of a hitman’s alias. He already has the name of the murderer they should be searching – the detective sometimes feels like a veritable human archive, better than anything Scotland Yard can offer.

Apparently it’s a famous assassin, the one they’re facing now, and not one John would like to meet unarmed. Being strangled to death seems a particularly unpleasant death, and despite his army training. John doesn’t particularly fancy meeting this one.

The doctor can’t help but wonder what this poor bloke did to deserve having an assassin hired against him – he looks like an ordinary bloke. And that’s as far as his deductions – or his lack of them, to be honest – go.

But once Sherlock starts taking them through his deductions (after a bit of gentle prodding on John’s part, because he’s apparently exasperated at their blindness – for which the doctor can’t even fault him) he guesses right. Better than Lestrade, and doesn’t this make him insanely proud, even if Sherlock doesn’t praise him much. Though he’d not noticed the one-and-hundred clues that Sherlock brings to back up this hypothesis. (Well, but for the hook for the walkie talkie, which he suddenly observed and that gave him the idea in the first place). It would be normal for a guard to be killed by a thief, or something such. But someone commissioning his death? What would prompt anyone to do so?

Sherlock goes on with his explanation, giving evidence for the art forgery – a thirty million worth forgery, which might certainly be worth commissioning a murder or two to keep hidden – and as always, John can’t help himself. “Fantastic,” he breathes, awed by his friend. He’ll never get tired of praising Sherlock.

Instead, the sleuth replies, “Meretricious,” and John wonders. What is “showy but false”? The bomber’s new plot? A fake so valuable might be termed as such, probably (it would be the first time the detective doesn’t appreciate his stalker’s “gifts” – which is a good thing). Or…he wasn’t referring to John’s compliments, was he? He’s too smart to believe that his flatmate’s appreciation isn’t entirely sincere, surely?

Lestrade adds his own sarcastic two cents, but knowing Sherlock’s never wrong, he plans to look for the Golem. The detective doesn’t have any faith in him, though, and declares happily he’ll find the man himself. And probably get half killed in the process. Oh joy. But if he had to be entirely honest with himself, John would have to confess his own blood is singing at the prospect of a fight with an internationally renowned murderer. Missing war, indeed.

They get into a taxi, and John expects them to follow the lead to the art gallery involved in the forgery. Or have they simply been duped too? Some experts they have. Then again, this painting is not even their usual type of art, so why would they get involved in the first place…no, something sounds definitely fishy even if there wasn’t the guard’s murder to back that theory up. And their favourite bomber (well, Sherlock’s favourite) knows of (maybe organized, if the sleuth’s right and people go to him with their criminal needs, no matter how odd that sounds) the fake.

But then the sleuth stops their cab…to go to talk to a homeless beggar? Has he been taken by a sudden surge of compassion? Not that John would really object to that, but he can’t help but think it’s a very out of character action for his friend. Sherlock isn’t famous for his empathy. And that’s not all. He’s seen the note Sherlock handed her, and well…that was a lot of money.

The sleuth assures him (because John can’t help the protest automatically on his lips) that he’s ‘investing’, and John can only hope that such an investment is case-related. Because the other dealings John can imagine that woman being involved in would definitely not be legal. But Sherlock said he’s clean, and he wouldn’t start using mid-case. If nothing else, he’s much too busy now to even think of that.

So, John doesn’t even mind much that he’s now stuck with cab fare, since apparently Sherlock just ‘invested’ everything he bloody had on his person. He wonders idly what would happen if he didn’t have money, either. Would they make a run for it here and now? Call Mycroft? Ask someone else for a ride and/or a loan? Really, Sherlock trusts him too much to handle life sometimes. One day John won’t be able to help and it will come bite the detective in the ass.

When they arrive at the gallery, and Sherlock doesn’t allow him to follow, John can’t help but be deeply disappointed. Are they already at the point where Sherlock doesn’t want him around for his investigations?

Apparently no, he’s just aiming to gain time by sending him to gather data at their victim’s flat, but after what happened with Connie Prince, John can’t help to wonder why. Does he like internally laughing at John’s suppositions? (At least he doesn’t mock him outright…yet.)

As always, unable to deny Sherlock anything (he really has to learn that, preferably soon), John moves to the victim’s home, and is welcomed by the flatmate, a woman, who feels the need to point out right at the start that they were _just_ flatmates – nothing like that. Is it a case of excusatio non petita, accusatio manifesta? Or did she get insinuations as often as Sherlock and he do? The detective would know – from her shoes, or something equally random.

He tries nonetheless to understand the character of their victim, in hope of finding some sort of clue to offer to the sleuth. The man was clearly a man with a passion – for the stars – and John can’t help but think what would he have thought of Sherlock if he’d met him when he was alive. Mr. ‘I deleted the solar system as useless’ faced with the stars lover. Now that would be one amusing meeting.

The flatmate says the guard wasn’t interested in art beyond his job, though, and had no particular knowledge about it. So how could he have discovered a forgery that some experts were ready to authenticate?

The break in is further evidence that the man knew something, or had something (would the flatmate even notice if whatever constituted their evidence was gone?) and how is John supposed to discover what it was? Or Sherlock for the matter?

In a bid to retrace the victim’s steps and understand, he’s allowed to hear out the last message for him. A professor Cairns. Maybe an art expert that he had consulted once he’s started to doubt the painting was a fake? But what made him doubt? It’s maddening. And Sherlock won’t be pleased by his lack of results. Well, maybe the detective will manage to find Cairns, and they can learn something that way.

Talking of Sherlock, what is he doing? John hopes he’ll be in a sharing mood later. The doctor can’t help but think that he shouldn’t have left him go on his own – there’s an obsessed bomber on the loose and he hasn’t called yet and oh God what if they kidnap Sherlock and strap him to a bomb? It would change the rules of the game midway, sure, but since when do criminals care about that?

That’s it, he’s done here anyway, now he’s getting back to Sherlock’s side. Someone needs to protect that absurdly brilliant man, and clearly the sleuth thinks that the MET isn’t qualified enough for that job. And he hates Mycroft and his minions, so who else is there?

Thinking about Mycroft seems to have evoked him. He texts (why does he texts? He hates texting as much as – or because – Sherlock loves it) asking how far the investigation is along. You know, the one of national importance, with the secret plans. The one Sherlock delegated entirely to him, because he won’t do boring work when someone is trying so delightfully to court him. Maybe going back to Sherlock will have to wait a bit. Disappointing both Holmes brothers in this matter is really not advisable. He can go talk to the persons involved at least. Gather data. And then maybe he’ll only have to report the facts back to them for either Holmes to figure things out on his own.                  

So instead of heading home he’s interrogating the victim-slash-traitor’s fiancée, and fighting hard his urge to comfort her instead. If she wasn’t – and he wasn’t – what they respectively are at the moment he’d probably cheer her up with a bit of tasteful flirting. Make her feel that life continues – and can be nice.

As it is, he can only suggest tea to calm her down, which doesn’t work too well. Because she’s upset by his suspects, but these are Mycroft assumptions, and John has learned never to question a Holmes’ word. At least she’s smart enough to understand that he’s not expressing a personal view, but “the bosses’ opinion.” Though their traitor would have had motive – he had debts, the fiancée is adamant that he would never do so. How well did she know him, John can’t help but wonder.      

Anyway, he inquires about the happenings of the victim’s last night (he better think of him as the victim rather than the traitor – the girl is perceptive and won’t like if he keeps insinuating such things.)

There’s precious little to know, though. She doesn’t know what could really put them on the right trail to find the people responsible – and to perhaps exonerate her fiancé from every accusation. Who did the man go to meet? And how can John discover it? There’s got to be some clue – but he’s not Sherlock.

“He wouldn’t have,” the woman insists. “How do I know? Because we were soulmates, that’s why, and _I_ would never betray my country.”

John can’t help but hope that she’s wrong, that she found one of the many homonyms, because dying so young because your soulmate has been killed is nothing short of tragedy. Hearing from everyone that it was his fault in the first place, for being a traitor, on top of that…he can see why she clings to her trust in the man so strongly.

“I’m sure you’re right,” he says placatingly, “you knew him. And if you remember anything that could help bring his murderers to justice – any fact at all, no matter how apparently menial, please call me.”

He’s glad to know that she has a brother that will look out for her – if the victim was her soulmate, and even if she’ll have to face the fact he wasn’t. Even if he gets insulted in the process. But it’s natural that the investigation is going slow. Still, he can’t help but feel guilty about that. (But there’s no persuading Sherlock to deal with the simple theft plus murder now that he has the mad bomber on his hands.)    

 

At the gallery, Sherlock’s soul is divided. Of course he sent away John, he had to. He needs to work, not try to impress. And somehow, he always tries to impress his friend whenever he’s in the room. Not to mention that John doesn’t know how to act, and would ruin his little joke. A joke that might possibly cause the guilty party to confess. It probably won’t, to be honest, but it’s worth a try. It would solve things so much quicker, and Moriarty would finally call (the lack of the customary call is unnerving him more that knowing any victim could do). But still, he misses his friend’s presence. For a second, he remains watching the cab sped away with John in it and wishes things could be different.

The actual act goes remarkably smoothly. He needs only a few words to a friend’s of their victim, informing them of what’s happened and promising to solve it quickly, to find himself in possession of a uniform. (Of course he’s solving this quickly – he doesn’t know the deadline, and when not knowing, always assume the worst. He has to solve this the fastest that he’s ever been.) Now, it’s show-time.

He goes to have a good look at the painting. Maybe he’ll gather enough data to solve this case right away. True, he’s not an art expert – but he uses his brain, contrarily to most of humanity. There must be a clue somewhere. After all, the bloody security guard figured it out. The man wasn’t an art critic – the solution must be rather obvious. Strangely, he finds no deduction is possible. He can’t have been surpassed by the dead man. A finer observer than him? Mycroft, maybe…but if their victim had such high talents he wouldn’t have remained as a low-wage security guard, surely? He’s irritated with himself. As a result (not only to try to wrong-foot her) he’s particularly snippy in his accusations to the museum’s director. Sadly, she doesn’t admit anything or try to outright threaten his life (of course – she needs the Golem for that). He supposes that was indeed too much to hope for. After seeing the woman, at least he’s sure she’s involved in the forgery and is not a victim too. She wouldn’t be defensive if she was – she would have wanted to go to the bottom of the question and understand if the accusations might possibly be true. She already knows they are true – and is not going to let another stupid guard get in the way of her plan. She must be having deja vus now. He does give her his name. Let her set the Golem on him. If his homeless network doesn’t find him, it’ll be the assassin to find them. He’s not scared. He has John to protect him.

He can’t help but be disappointed when he reaches 221B and finds that John is not already there. Why isn’t he? Investigating the victim shouldn’t require all this time. He was a boring security guard (despite his unexpected brilliance in recognizing forgery), how many things there can be to inquire about?

And above all, who is supposed to make Sherlock’s tea? Not Mrs. Hudson, she might even agree, but she won’t get it right. Nobody makes tea like John. No one. Not their landlady, not his mummy, and no matter if he observes John preparing his magical tea, Sherlock can’t even start to replicate the quality of his brew. “Because it’s prepared with love,” teen!Sherlock chimes in unexpectedly, and Sherlock is brusquely reminded of why Mycroft has always deemed him his ‘stupid little brother’.

“Shut up, you!” he says out loud, irritated – thankfully there’s no one here to take that comment the wrong way, only Billy the skull who is as always looking at him serenely, unfazed by the detective’s antics. If Billy reacted in any way…well, there’s the day Sherlock would have to be committed. Again. “Ssshh! Don’t tell John what happened when Mycroft decided he couldn’t deal with our weirdness anymore,” teen Sherlock whispers conspiratorially, and his adult self, this time, agrees wholeheartedly.  He’s been discharged eventually, and that’s all that matters. Most of what happened has been either deleted or bolted away, and it doesn’t bother Sherlock anymore. Honest.

The point is – he has to go without tea now. And without John. And both are menial sacrifices, to be sure, but he’s allowed to be a bit sulky over it. Especially because there’s no one to notice and wonder exactly what has put him into a mood.

And then John is arriving (finally) and one of his homeless network is, too, and it’s to talk to her that Sherlock leaves home. Not to go welcome John at the door like a good little wife, of course – he doesn’t even care about the man, he’s going about his business, solving the case. And if that means he doesn’t have to wait even the minute of John coming up the seventeen steps to be in his company, to have him at his side, falling into easy step with him and reporting back what he’s found, well that’s a bonus, and Sherlock doesn’t look needy and it’s all fine.

So yes, maybe he’s a bit rude with John, but his report is quite pithy for someone who’s been out so long (though Sherlock suspects he’s worked more than one case). But whatever John has found out now doesn’t even matter, because his homeless network works, and now they have a place. They can go catch Lestrade a murderer, a hired assassin that will tell them who’s his client (though Sherlock knows already) but with that evidence they can interrogate her and solve the case and save the life (maybe – assuming someone’s in danger now even without a call to prove it). They take the same cab John came home with, and here they are, once again on a killer’s track, just the two of them. It’s wonderful.                       

It feels so good, indeed, that for a moment he lets himself be distracted by the majestic beauty of the night sky. John at his side, a nice stroll in search of a murderer and the stars twinkling benevolently at them. What more could a man wish for? (Yes, well, something, but let’s not go down that avenue. It’s bolted – on both their sides, actually. Even the prospect makes John defensively angry, and Sherlock’s not looking to ruin his mood tonight.)

He utters a casual remark, and he is faced with John’s surprise. It stings. Why are they always talking about who…sorry, what…revolves around which? Is he not allowed to enjoy the stars without knowing the details, just like people do about pretty much anything? Oh, no matter now – they’re on the hunt. The stars matter nothing.

He’s looking around, thrumming with adrenaline – there must be the Golem around here, the Homeless Network knows better than to fail him – and explaining to John how his information acquiring works. And John calls him clever. Oh, yes. John’s praise never fails to make him all warm with pleasure. He wishes he could praise back, and make John just as happy, but this is not the moment to get a full report and compliment him on a job (hopefully) well done. Now, where could the Golem be hiding? From what he knows of the man, he’s too big to disappear easily.

Or so he’d thought, at least. He finally spots the man – it’s exactly like the description he’s gleaned from Interpol, this must be the Golem (he’s a fearsome vision, Sherlock has to admit). Now, to catch him and serve him on a silver platter to Lestrade, who will certainly grumble about being left out of the action but there’s John with him, so the DI won’t be able to complain that Sherlock got into danger without backup and risked his life. (Lestrade, Mycroft, and now John are all obsessed with the detective’s need for backup. He’s not a child, he’s perfectly able to deal with criminals on his own. Though now John’s presence while tracking a murderer is a very welcome addition.)

Before they can apprehend him, though, the Golem gets a ride from a nondescript car. Someone requires his services – and he’s escaped them. Sherlock hates failing. Especially failing when someone else is going to die soon because of that. But then – oh, John. Brilliant John. Lifesaving John. There’s someone who was in contact with their victim about the man’s suspects of forgery, and it’s obvious that this person is the one whoever saw the dead man as a threat would want to ensure does not share further their discoveries. They only need to get to Professor Cairns. Teen!Sherlock insists that the adequate way to thank John for being so good is to kiss him, but Sherlock won’t give into the impulse. The last thing he needs now is John balking at his shameful attitude. They have someone to save (hopefully at least).

Instead, they arrive too late. Being disturbed in his strangling, the Golem easily snaps the poor professor’s neck. If Sherlock had paid more attention to John’s report…if he had deduced that, being in the know, the professor was the natural next victim and come here earlier, ambushing the Golem… But no, he had to behave as if he still had no partner in his work and follow the Homeless Network’s suggestion.

Truth is, it was worse than dismissing John because he’s not used to having a colleague at his side. This was him try to show off for John, once again – his network’s efficiency, his ability to track people down. He couldn’t show off if he asked for his friend’s input. And that has cost them a few minutes and professor Cairns her life. Sherlock won’t ever forgive himself for that. And he’s not going to show off anymore. Not once. (Oh, who is he kidding? Trying to impress John – trying to gain his praise – is natural like breathing to him. He doesn’t even realise he’s doing it until after the fact.)

If they can’t save the life, they are going to see the murderer brought to justice, though. Golem is not escaping them again. Now, if only the lightning wasn’t so awful, things would go considerably better. Sherlock rushes in against his enemy, and discovers soon that someone who’s used to killing people with his own bare hands isn’t the kind of person you really want to face unarmed. In a few moments he’s being suffocated, too (this has become a habit lately) but then John is saying, “Let him go or I _will_ kill you,” steadfastly aiming his gun at their foe, ice in his voice, and Sherlock thinks that might be stealing his breath more than Golem’s overly large hands. Is this how John was like when he shot the cabbie? Why, oh why has he lost that spectacle then?

Golem lets him go, but only to attack John. Well, that can’t be allowed. (Though John, with his military training, fares very well against someone thrice his size). They team up against Golem, though not in a very coordinate fashion (they must really work on that)…and to Sherlock’s frustration, that’s still not enough. Once again, the Golem does indeed escape them, despite their efforts. (Sherlock will blame missing  his mark when he tries to shoot Golem on the awful lighting giving him a headache).

There’s no presenting him to Lestrade to be interrogated. And time is running (they don’t have a deadline, this time – no, the truth is they don’t _know_ the deadline, which is a thousand times worse). They go back to Baker Street with metaphorical tails between their legs, and not even John’s tea manages to cheer Sherlock up.

If they had warned Lestrade in advance, like the man always insists they should…he’d probably arrive too late anyway. But Sherlock can’t help running what ifs and scolding himself for every error in his head, and he’s really botched this and allowed someone to die once again and he doesn’t know how they forged the painting, or how the security guard figured that out, and that random dead guard is still better than Sherlock at the moment. What happens if he fails once again? (Someone will die, obvious, but who – where – so many questions, and no answers. The bomber will be very disappointed in Sherlock once he wins this round. And maybe he will forego the next one, disgusted by how easy it is to defeat the sleuth.)

The detective stays up all night, trying to figure out at least some of the answers, but it is all in vain. Well, then…they have someone to interrogate. The woman who commissioned the forgery and the murders. This time, Sherlock meets her with Lestrade at his side (and John of course – always John). She’s less than pleased to see him again, refuting sharply his accuses. But he’s sure. If there was no crime involved, the bomber would not have directed them here. Of course the painting is false. Nothing makes sense otherwise – there’d be no motive for the murders.

When the pink phone finally rings (he’s been on edge since the start of this case, waiting for it – waiting to know who he’s fighting for this time) that’s what he says. Even if the faint breathing irks him. No tease this time? No challenge? Just creepy breaths and waiting for him to prove himself?

He tries to cheat (fine, he admits that it’d be cheating – a bit). He offers the solution, but tries to shirk from proving it. Leave to Lestrade the duty to find evidence that would hold in court. He has to solve the puzzle – not put the culprit behind bars.

That’s evidently not good enough – their bomber is still silent, waiting for him to show his usual brilliant self. To deduce. If he can’t even understand what the security guard figured out, what sort of sleuth is he? (Mycroft would know instantly, as much as it pains Sherlock to admit this, if only to his own self. He’s taken possession of the mind palace and berating Sherlock for being an idiot child who’ll get yet other people killed and generally being distracting. Sherlock orders him rather tersely to shut up.)

Well, then, what is his deadline? He has a right to know, doesn’t he? He asks for time…and receives ten seconds. Which is a great show of trust in his abilities, of course, but it means, too, that the answer is staring him in the face. Well, what does he know? The victims weren’t art expert. They were astronomy experts.

Fuck astronomy. Is their bomber taking the piss at him for not knowing about the solar system? Can’t someone give the bloody thing a rest? He’s always maintained that stars were useless for cases… and Moriarty managed to fabricate one for him where a life hangs in the balance – a child’s life, even how scared must he be strapped to a bomb and in the hands of a madman – and it all depends on bloody stars (there’s no planet in the background of the painting, so stars it must be.)

He’s so frustrated with it – and so very, very aware of his shortcomings – that he almost asks for a confession…before abruptly remembering what this will lead to. He already has Cairns he couldn’t save this round. Adding more to his body count this round is not something he looks forward to. 

Thank God that he hasn’t managed to delete the details of yesterday’s failure, because some odd notions of astronomy are still floating in his brain. He realizes it at four seconds. So obvious. So egregious an oversight of the forger. So…elegant a solution. He utters his appreciation, much to Lestrade and John’s consternation. But Moriarty will like it better if it’s solved at the last second – like an action movie – and the tease worked out well in the end, so Sherlock can forgive it (but he’ll really need to have a word with John about announcing his weaknesses to the world).

 

        

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. Excusatio non petita accusatio manifesta is Latin for “Excuse not requested, obvious accusation” meaning if you try to justify yourself pre-emptively for something when no one asked you to is because you’ve done something wrong.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I’m still not owning anything.

They’ve just solved the case (well, Sherlock has) and he’s running away God knows where, hopefully not to have a cigarette – and John should really stop thinking in sexual encounters tropes regarding cases in general and this insane case/game in particular, but the sleuth makes it quite hard sometimes. What would Donovan say if she knew John too gets off on his flatmate’s brilliance and adrenaline – just a tiny bit – (decidedly not good, John)? Yes, he hates when children are in danger, but the resolution of all that tension – just great. He scolds the detective all the time, but it’s a pot calling the kettle black situation (not entirely, because Sherlock is really worse than him in that regard).

But he’s high on a happy resolution, and wondering where Sherlock is disappearing to, and the text he receives is annoying in the extreme. Mycroft Holmes – a very impatient Mycroft Holmes – demands results, preferably yesterday. Now, if Sherlock were on the case – he’d understand it. It seems that even the most complex questions take him half a day at most. But John – whatever do the Holmes brothers want from John? He’s tried, of course. He’s tried his best. But he has not the brain of either of them. Is he meant to beg for Sherlock’s help when the sleuth trusts his ‘esteemed colleague’? (He probably will, to be honest, but not now – not yet, at least.)   

Mycroft really has the worst timing, bringing John brusquely down from the high of a just solved case. It’s a mood-killer, and now he understands why Sherlock finds his brother so very annoying. He’s the type to remember you of homework still to do when you and your friends have just won a game (Sherlock might not have had friends when John entered the picture, by general consensus, but certainly that didn’t mean he’d never had any before him, right? It’d be too sad otherwise).

However annoying he might be, though, he certainly has a point. These missile plans aren’t going to retrieve themselves, and there’s the murder to solve. People to bring to justice. John can’t help but hope that the victim wasn’t selling the plans, after all. He’d love to be able to tell to the distraught fiancée (hopefully not really soulmate) that she was right, and the man was as good a character as she’d always known him to be.  

He follows Sherlock, decided to tell him that he’s got things to do.

“Oh perfect, John, you’re here. We’re going home. I’d say we deserve a cup of tea, don’t you?” the sleuth says, grinning at him.

“We certainly do, but you’ll have to make your own tea, Sherlock,” the doctor warns. It takes all his fortitude not to laugh at the detective’s answering pout. Sometimes, his flatmate looks no older than five at most – probably younger than the hostage kid is.

“Why would I? I solved the case. Surely you can do me a tiny favour. I don’t know why, but your tea-making skills are unparalleled,” the detective admits, giving him his best puppy look.

“Woah, thanks for that, but flattery will get you nowhere today, sorry. Since I am your esteemed colleague, and you already solved your own case, I thought I really should start working on the one you assigned me. Well, Mycroft thought so, but it’s better to not antagonize him. We’re working – sorry, I’m working, you don’t want anything to do with your brother’s boring case, right? – for Queen and country and all that after all – wouldn’t want the missile plans to end up in the wrong hands. Well, they most probably already are, but if they can be recuperated, maybe I’ll manage to salvage things. At least a bit,” John says, and it’s a wonder Sherlock doesn’t interrupt him.

“Oh fine,” the sleuth replies instead. “I guess that I’ll follow Lestrade then. I mean, the gallery owner must know something about Moriarty. I was thinking of relaxing and awaiting the inspector’s report, but you’re right, we should rather work. Anyways, Graham is likely to botch the interrogation it if we leave him alone. And since this case seems rather time-sensitive, it’s better to have the information right away. If you would rather follow your own case, feel free. But as my blogger, I’d love if you followed the Moriarty case closely too. I expect that you’ll want to make an account of it at the end.”

“You hate my blog,” John points out, surprised.

“It gave inspiration to Moriarty, though, at least for the pink phone. If it brings such delightfully creative criminals about, I suppose I can’t complain too much about it,” Sherlock remarks, shrugging.

Not exactly what John wanted to be reminded of – having a psychopathic bomber as his reader – but it’s true that he wants to keep an eye on Sherlock until this case is closed, so… “I’ll accompany you at Scotland Yard,” he caves in. “I’ll really need to work on my case afterwards, though.”

“Far be from me the thought of hindering a fellow detective,” Sherlock says, grinning.  John shakes his head, mock exasperated.

Sadly they get nothing from the woman but confirmation that Moriarty is indeed behind this and that he’s fairly unreachable by normal clients. The man surely knows how to protect himself.

“So I’m going,” the doctor says when Sherlock is done with her, “do you want to…?”

“Your case, John,” Sherlock reminds him. “I’m certainly not going to work for _Mycroft._ ” The detective makes a face at the prospect.

The blogger sighs, but goes to the crime scene. There must be clues.

Now, if only he knew how to look for them, things would go considerably smoother. He’s floundering, and can’t help but feel out of place. There should be Sherlock here, and in a few seconds he’d determine the killer. “It’s obvious,” he’d say . and once explained, it would surely look that way. Well, nothing’s obvious to the doctor, and when he’s asked if he’ll stay long he can only confirm it. He’ll probably loiter around for hours, trying desperately to figure out how things went…and still not manage it. Why has he been so arrogant as to claim he’s the sleuth’s colleague to Wilkes? Is this Sherlock’s version of giving him a lesson about his role as – at most – faithful blogger and unneeded claque? But why use a case of national importance to drive that point home instead of a minor one?

He’s distracted from his musings – which really have been sidetracked from the case (bad John) so that’s ok – from the tube guard prattling about the selfishness of suicides and the trauma train drivers have to live with. Though intimately acquainted with guilt about being unable to stop people from dying from his time as an army doctor (and survivor guilt too, as icing on the cake), John wouldn’t have pegged guilt as occupational hazard in train drivers. He really doesn’t reflect about things enough.                          

Despite his lack of trust in himself, John notices something. He’d assumed they’d cleaned the scene, but apparently they haven’t…well then, were is all the blood? He’s a doctor and a soldier, he might not have seen a lot of suicides but he’s sure as hell seen enough violent deaths to know what they look like. And there’s supposed to be blood. Lots of blood. Arteries have this habit to spray all around when they’re forcibly opened, you see. The body should have been half destroyed by a train running over it – and certainly a few arteries would be ripped open. But no, there was little blood. Why was there little blood? It could only happen if there was no blood flow already, nothing being regularly pumped in those arteries before the train hit him. In other words, if their victim was dead already. Now, dead people take no trains – so the lack of ticket is understandable. But how did someone smuggle a dead body into the station? It can’t be like that Weekend at Bernie’s movie, can it?

He’s just figured it out when Sherlock unexpectedly pops out from behind him, making John’s heart jump. The detective should count himself lucky that he’s not reflexively attacked. You really shouldn’t sneak up on your ex-army friends. John shall have to have words with his flatmate about that.

That, and the proper way to wake up a former soldier if you have a breakthrough on a case you’re following in the middle of the night, and a few other things. Just because he was a doctor people tend to underestimate his fighting instincts in the worst way – even Sherlock, who recognized them on sight and is more than willing to put them to good use.

At least the sleuth is offering him praise for figuring things out on his own, and John’s heart warms up. He’s got his friend’s approval. Though of course Sherlock would have figured that out in five seconds, but he’s growing better at this detection lark. He can be, if not a full colleague, at least a very eager pupil for the detective.

Detective who’s confessing having followed John all the time (he should take lesson in noticing a tail – or maybe is it because Sherlock meant him absolutely no harm that his instincts haven’t kicked in?).

“You didn’t think that I would lose a nice case just to spite Mycroft, did you?” the sleuth says, a hint of laughter in his eyes.

“You pronounced this case boring,” the blogger can’t help but remind him.

“In comparison to Moriarty, it certainly is, but I solved Moriarty’s puzzle this morning, and you don’t really want me to pine around waiting for the next when there’s a perfect distraction handy, do you?” Sherlock replies. After half a second, he adds hesitantly, “Or…did you _want_ to work this case alone? To test yourself, or something like that?”

“God, no – never. I’ll never want to investigate something on my own, Sherlock. The way I hope you wouldn’t even think of diagnosing a client’s illness or give treatments by yourself. We can each have our own field and happily cooperate, yes?” the doctor assures hastily. After a blinding smile, he adds, “And I certainly don’t want you pining around. I doubt that Mrs. Hudson would take it kindly if your pining involved more boredom-relieving activities like last time.”

Sherlock smiles back. “I still don’t see why you both had a problem with that. Anyway, don’t worry, I won’t pretend to be a doctor anymore, now that I have a true one to send undercover if the case should require it.”

That ‘anymore’ should worry John, but he decides to concentrate on the case at hand. “So, Sherlock, what do we do now?”

“Follow me,” the sleuth orders.

‘To the end of the world,’ John thinks, but that’s a tad overdramatic, so he just nods.

Apparently what’s in order today is breaking and entering. It seems that Sherlock makes a habit of this (it’s certainly happened often in their still-relatively-brief relationship) and John is not against it per se – not nitpicking about law and morals and you should really not enter anyone’s house without permission – but he really wishes that Sherlock wouldn’t be so nonchalant about it. There are risks to consider (well, not as many risks as in America, where everyone has a gun or two, but still).

He needs to trust Sherlock not to put them in a situation they can’t get themselves out of, and he does trust him, really. He’d just like to understand the whys and how and so on instead of always having to follow in blindly. The house of the brother of their victim’s fiancée? He seemed like a good lad, protective of his sister. And if there’s even the slightest chance that the man be his sister’s true soulmate he would certainly never have touched him, right? It would be like killing his sibling. Such things just aren’t done.

Then again, Sherlock is rarely wrong, and only on inconsequential details, to John’s knowledge. So when the man comes back from work, and is reasonably startled at the sight of strangers in his own home, looking as if he’d like to violently eject them from the premises, the doctor is ruthless towards his possibly country-betraying and sister-and-almost-brother-in-law-murdering self.

Before the man can make a move against the detective (why does everyone automatically try to assault the sleuth?) John pulls out his not-entirely-legal gun – then again, the man thinks him a minion of the likes of Mycroft, and won’t be surprised by the weapon’s presence – and barks a sharp order.

Their suspect is more brave or desperate than John credited him to, because he has to reiterate his command before the man gives up and stands down, despite being over-numbered and clearly less equipped in the weapon department.

“Don’t try to lie and waste our time,” Sherlock advises him, “we already know.” John doesn’t doubt that for him that is true.

John is not surprised to discover that the man was a criminal already before deciding to steal the plans and murder his sister’s fiancé. “It was an accident, I swear, it’s not so serious an offense,” the man claims, but Sherlock looks unimpressed and disbelieving, and the doctor takes his cues from him. He’s disgusted by this man, and mildly regrets not having just shot him before.

“It could be your sister’s soulmate,” he reminds sharply to the murderer.

“Oh, she says it every time. ‘I feel it in my bones, Joe. This is the one. My soulmate. He must be.’ And after a few months she dumps everyone. I wouldn’t trust her. Just because she got influenza now it’s not enough for me to believe her dramatics,” Joe shrugs, unconcernedly.

It might be a coincidence, of course, but that she’s fallen ill since he has seen her doesn’t please John at all. How can the man be so heartless? He hopes the brother’s right, for her, but if he isn’t John will personally see that he’s charged with double murder too – if there’s going to be a process at all and Mycroft won’t just disappear this bastard.

To which John might not object, actually. He’s usually on principle against such things, but his morals are a bit more elastic that he’d always believed them to be, he discovers. He supposes his idea of limits is still a tad stronger than Sherlock’s, which is why his flatmate seems to have elected him as portable, talking moral compass.

At least the bastard hasn’t still managed to sell the plans, so Sherlock recuperates them easily. Once he’s discovered, and knowing they’re “sort of” with the police, and probably suspecting them as MI6, the murderer understands that a prompt yielding is the only thing that can save him. England is safe again.

“So…saved the country and saved a child’s life – and who knows how many others Moriarty would take as collateral damage. All in a day’s work. I’ll soon have to start inventing adjectives. Amazing doesn’t even cover it,” John comments afterwards.

“I wish you would refrain from creating neologisms. God knows what you’d do,” Sherlock chides – but he flushes a brilliant red.                                

                      

Later that night, they are relaxing at home. Sherlock has let John pick some sort of stupid show or another, but his friend is at his laptop, probably adding to his ridiculous blog. Considering the draft from the broken window (Mycroft should have sent someone already to fix that after the explosion, since John at least was working for him) the least his flatmate could do is have the both of them snuggling together on the sofa and sharing heat. Since it’s a bit too pitiful to use the sofa alone when it’s too cold to fully sprawl on it, Sherlock is huddled in his chair.

He will lodge a complaint with Mycroft later. Or maybe Mrs. Hudson – are the repairs Mrs. Hudson’s responsibility or theirs? Usually there’s no question, as it is Sherlock who causes the damage and hence should by all rights ensure it is seen to, but what happens when it is an explosion caused by his stalker? It is still his fault, for having attracted Moriarty’s attention in the first place? (Things are always Sherlock’s fault, somehow.)

And then John’s still teasing him about the bloody solar system, pointing out that if he hadn’t deleted it, he’d have solved today’s case much earlier. Will he ever be given a rest about what they orbit around or not? (He could so easily orbit around John. Be a sunflower to the warm light of John’s praise. What does it matter what the Earth turns around? It’s not rotating around John Watson, and as far as Sherlock knows, that’s stupid of it – and it’s the planet who’s decidedly in the wrong.)

“You know it all, and you didn’t solve it,” Sherlock points out somewhat acerbically.

“I’m not the genius consulting detective,” John counters, smiling.

“ Not yet you mean – we’ll have to train you in the art of deduction, certainly. You are a very good doctor, it’s a proof that you have a good brain inside your head. You just need a bit of a training – I do have a lot of head start on you. Say, have you ever played Deductions?” the sleuth queries, curious.

“Played what?” John utters, seemingly alarmed.

“Deductions. You deduce all you can about something or someone and try to do better than the other contestants. You don’t have to be discouraged if you lose at first – I used to be regularly beaten by Mycroft,” the detective explains, eager to start ‘training’ John.

His flatmate douses all his hopes for a pleasant evening in ice water. “Yeah, of course, if you think it’d help but – not today. I’m going to Sarah’s. She wants to see me – quite odd, given the shit boyfriend I’ve been to her. I can’t allow to mess this, Sherlock.”

Of course. Doctor Sarah bloody Sawyer, who stays stubbornly as his flatmate’s girlfriend despite experiences that would have scared away the best of them. Just another adrenaline addict then, probably. Isn’t it just perfect that they’ve found each other? (At least she’s not John’s soulmate, as the fellow is thankfully dead – Sherlock knows he wouldn’t be able to compete with a soulmate). Sherlock hates her, and hates John answering her summon like a good boy, but as he wants John out of his hair for the moment, he carefully doesn’t protest or offer any sort of weak excuse to keep him there.

John will probably hate him for going to confront Moriarty alone (if he survives) but there’s danger they both get high on gleefully together and then there’s Moriarty, and from what little he’s understood of the criminal, he doesn’t want him even in the same neighbourhood of anyone he cares about. God only knows what the bomber could do to John. So if the doctor has a night of his own, and will probably manage to finally get off without Sherlock’s interference, the consulting detective will just have to get himself a date with his most entertaining stalker. What else can a sociopath hope for, after all? 

Knowing he’ll need all the forgiveness John can spare afterwards, Sherlock even promises to get the milk. (Assuming he’ll be able to go to the shops and not the hospital asap after facing Moriarty, he’s even intentioned to keep that promise.)

So, you see, _John_ is the very last individual he expects to see when he finally reaches the pool for his date with the mysterious Moriarty. No. Simply NO. John’s supposed to be kissing Sarah at the time (as disgusting as that notion is). He would have no reason to follow Sherlock there. He certainly has no reason to _precede_ Sherlock here. What is he doing here?

An angry inner Mycroft reminds him, hissing, “Your fan, Sherlock. Your little secret admirer. How many people do you know that can even simply stand your presence? That would think to tease you about the solar system?”

John honestly likes him. That’s obvious. But – Moriarty does, too. In a way, Moriarty admires him very much. And what does John always say? “Brilliant, Sherlock. Amazing. Fantastic,” sometimes in that little breathy tone that makes Sherlock’s stomach flip flop.

But – can Sherlock really have been that blind? Can he have bloody lived with a criminal mastermind and not noticed simply because the man spontaneously _made him tea_? He’s always known feelings as the grit in the lens of his logical reasoning, but this is less grit and more the whole bloody Alps on his way (he remembers wonderful winter holidays on the French side of them with his surprisingly lively grand-mère). It can’t be…his moral compass can’t be evil, can he? Yes, John occasionally shoots people, but always not very nice people. Not old little ladies like Mrs. Hudson or children. It can’t be John!

Before he can work himself any further into a panic attack (he’s tasting bile already, wanting to get sick, but this is not the time nor place to be weak…not in front of his enemy, whoever he might be) Moriarty finally takes pity on him and reveals John as the fifth pip. He’d entirely forgotten the pips, the borrowed voices…all the games his stalker seems to take such great delight in. _Stupid_ , Sherlock. Which is bad, very bad because now John might die. But it’s good because John hasn’t played him for a fool all this time.

And John would probably say that Sherlock’s prevalent emotion at the moment being sheer, undiluted relief is a bit not good because it means the sleuth has doubted him previously. His flatmate will be miffed that the sleuth seriously considered him a possible criminal mastermind with a penchant for bombs and stalkerish tendencies.

And now the detective really needs to stop thinking about John and concentrate on the threat he’s come to face, because John’s powers of distraction on his soul risk very well to get them all killed in this situation.

So, Moriarty. Moriarty who’s stuck John in enough Semtex to probably blow three houses down, and who is complaining now – whining, really. “I gave you my number. I thought you might call.” Wait, no, Moriarty’s number was blocked, he doesn’t have… he has it, he realises, once the man finally comes forward. He’s dressed sharply, as it’s fit for their “first date”. He really wants to make a good impression on him.

However, when the man approaches with a too-wide grin and a polite introduction, Sherlock pretends to have forgotten him. As if that brief stint at Bart’s never happened. So at least he doesn’t have to admit that he got a wrong reading on him – well, not wrong, he still thinks Jim is gay as they come, but a partial. Too partial. How did he not see ‘criminal mastermind’? Or even only ‘psychopath’? Come on, Molly liked him, that last one at least he should have surmised. A tiny bit of insanity certainly was in her tastes.

Before Sherlock can go on with his self-loathing much longer (though at the speed of his brain it takes him only a couple of seconds), Moriarty continues, “Your soulmate.”

“No you’re not,” the detective replies evenly. He almost moves to bare his wrist – would that be enough to persuade _Jim_ Moriarty to let him alone? (What would John think knowing he’s lied to him about his soulmate’s death?)

It seems Moriarty reads his mind, because before he can even hint the move the man snaps harshly, “Don’t be silly, Sherlock. I don’t care about random names. I am your _soul_ ’s mate. The only one worthy of your attention, as you are for me. Yourself through the looking glass. Much more important than an unexplainable mole.”

“Such things are hardly for you alone to decide,” Sherlock points out calmly, despite how upset he is. There are snipers around – and they are aiming at John and his explosive-filled vest. Odd – that would take out Moriarty, too. Why can’t they just keep him alone in their sights? He wouldn’t be so worried by the mere chance of receiving a hail of bullets.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re _sentimental_ and hung up on a myth with barely any evidence behind it,” Jim groans, mocking and clearly disappointed in him. “Didn’t I demonstrate you how worthy of one another we are, my dear consulting detective? I showed you all these things I can do. I even lost thirty million just because I wanted you to glimpse all I could do, and considered it a good investment.”

“Of course I’m not _sentimental_ ,” the sleuth bits back sharply, as if that’s the worst accuse he’s ever been subjected to. “And I’m well aware of what you can do, thank you very much. ‘Dear Jim, will you get rid of my lover’s nasty wife for me, please?’ ‘Dear Jim, will you help me disappear in South America?’ You’re a consulting criminal.”

“Exactly!” Moriarty beams at him.

“I won’t say that it’s not absolutely brilliant…” the detective breaths, admiring, “but that throws quite the spanner in our relationship, don’t you think?”

“I don’t see why. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I loved to play with you. Give you all these crumbles to follow, see you dance to my tune. But Daddy’s had enough now. You shouldn’t be on the coppers’ side, Sherlock. They don’t appreciate you anyway. Think about it – you might join me. We’d be the perfect couple. We’d be invincible. Consulting criminal husbands – owning the world,” Moriarty replies, enthusiastic.

“You’re not invincible until I exist,” Sherlock points out. “And I happen to like my own career. Do you _really_ expect me to mimic someone else? You’d get bored of me in under a minute…if you’re really my soulmate. Which I still think you aren’t.”                                             

Jim pouts. He honestly to God _pouts_. “Don’t try impossible things, baby. If you don’t want to join me…yet, I suppose I will allow it. But don’t try to get on my way. You’ve already ruined one plan too much, without being aware to. Now you know – so, if you recognise my style, you’ll back off, won’t you?”

“I certainly won’t. I will catch you,” the detective assures, almost angrily.

“No you won’t,” Moriarty singsongs, shaking his index finger.

“But all this is all empty chatter, isn’t it?” the detective grits out. “You just want the missile plans. And I just want my flatmate’s tea-making skills. So take it, and let us go home.” He holds out the usb like a treat to a dog. And he knows he shouldn’t mention John, he shouldn’t let out how much he just wants to have him safe. It’s a joke, a demeaning one, as if John’s only good as a butler, but Jim Moriarty will probably see right through it anyway. And yet here Sherlock is, admitting he just want to go home with John. (Stupid, Sherlock.)    

Jim actually laughs at that. He takes it…and tosses it out into the pool. “These? These are bo-ring, Sherlock. I could have gotten them anywhere. You got it all in reverse, uh? _This_ was the distraction, you dunce. The little tune I played for you to dance to…and you did. You always dance so beautifully, Sherlock. All these lessons really paid off. I’m serious –”

And then the conversation gets interrupted by John attacking the consulting criminal and bidding Sherlock to run, and it seems his friend hasn’t paid attention at all. Sherlock wants to go home together with him, and he very well can’t if John provokes Jim into exploding everyone, can he? He can die with him, of course, and he will if need be, but he’d rather not. If John had just let him deal with Moriarty (he can’t really think that Sherlock would willingly abandon him to his death can he? What does he take Sherlock for? A psychopath?) things would be easier.

Thank God that Jim seems more amused by John’s bravery than anything else. He calls him ‘sweet’, and that creeps Sherlock out more than all the talk of soulmates before. It’s bad enough that the detective has attracted the consulting criminal’s attention. The man can’t take a shine to John. Sherlock is clearly not good enough to protect him adequately, and Jim could so easily take his blogger away from him. That can’t be allowed to happen. 

Not to mention that Jim’s talking of _owning_ people, taking them as pets, as if that’s what Sherlock’s done (he’s afraid if anything it’s the inverse – it’s John feeding and generally taking care of him, after all). John won’t be anyone’s pet. He’ll die first. Sherlock would, too – if the owner was Jim.

The snipers aim at Sherlock, now, and even if that’s a definitely welcome change, it makes John stand down with a frown. John won’t allow the sleuth to be killed. At least that is a requited feeling. Good to know.

“Now that that’s out of the way – are you serious in not joining me, Sherlock? Despite how great we could be?” Moriarty asks, with a slight pout.

“I’ll have to pass,” the detective says coldly.

“Don’t force me to take other measures about you,” Jim threatens, with a feral smile.

“Oh, I don’t mind if you try to kill me,” the sleuth assures nonchalantly. The keyword being ‘me’ in that sentence. Does Jim realise it?

“Kill you? No no no, that’s last resort, and you’ll have to be very naughty indeed to deserve that, darling. If you insist on not acknowledging our soul bond I won’t kill you, baby. I’ll just burn the heart out of you. Once your soul is in tatters I’ll sew it back like it should be,” Moriarty explains, shaking his head disappointed at his counterpart’s assumption.

“You might find that a hard task. I’ve been reliably informed that I don’t have one,” Sherlock bits back, voice soft. That’s his mask. It should manage to protect him and his dear ones.   

“But we both know that’s not quite true,” the consulting criminal replies, glancing at John.

Oh bugger. It’s the first time his mask fails him. He’s said too much, or not enough, and now this fiend knows that he cares for John – and will not hesitate to murder him should Sherlock displease him. But he can’t very well join Moriarty to keep John safe, can he? His flatmate would never forgive him.

“I’ll let you take a break, so you can ponder your choice. And that means I must be off,” Moriarty offers, voice kind.

“Or I could shoot you right now,” Sherlock quips back. He’d be free of the consulting criminal’s looming threat. Being allowed a reprieve does not mean Jim won’t be back to torment him. Or won’t kill John if the next time Sherlock doesn’t bow to him and joins him (which he can’t do – Mycroft would blow a gasket…and John would hate him).

“Really now? Killing your soulmate – that’s rather morbid and unusual, don’t you think?” Moriarty replies. He’s still so sure of being Sherlock’s destined one, no matter what anyone (soulmark included) has to say about it. “You can, of course,” he adds conversationally, “it’d surprise me – it’d surprise me very much if you dared to, though. And obviously you’d be free of me – for a brief time indeed. After all, if there’s a hereafter, it stands to reason that soulmates be allowed next each other.” The consulting criminal grins with too many teeth. “Were would John be sent instead, what do you think? Has he killed enough people to warrant hell?”

So it’s useless killing him. He – and John, which is much more important – would still be taken down by the snipers if such a thing happened. And John must not die. Absolutely. So there’s no choice – he has to take Jim’s suspension of his sentence…and be bloody grateful for it.

“Bye, mo anam,” Jim utters softly.

 Sherlock, torn between wanting to have him arrested, wishing him to just disappear from his life forever and the urge to deny once again that they’re soulmates, ends up saying nothing at all, just glaring.

Then, finally free to follow his (maybe existent, after all), heart, he hurries to take the bomb vest away from John and throw it as far as it will go, asking in a choked voice if he’s okay. They’re alive at least, which is good, but only God knows what Jim Moriarty might have done to John while he held him kidnapped. Horrific ideas flit through Sherlock’s terrified mind. John might have stabbed, poisoned, raped…

John slids to the floor, his legs not quite supporting him, but he assures him that he’s fine, asking if Sherlock is, too. “Of course I am,” the sleuth huffs. He’s just been threatened and scared out of his mind, nothing he can complain of – nothing that would possibly require John’s assistance (and he regrets it a bit, because if only he was hurt they would touch – maybe cuddle a bit in comfort). He can’t exactly cuddle John now can he? But oh God, he aches to do so. (Don’t be stupid, Sherlock – now it’s not the time to make John balk.)

Awkwardly, the detective thanks his friend. John was ready to die for him a moment ago, that deserves an acknowledgement. He adds a look that hopefully means, “but don’t try it anymore”. Mycroft would understand. Tackling a scolding to his gratefulness seems in bad taste, so Sherlock can’t say it outright. But John really needs to not put his life on the line for Sherlock’s. He’s obviously not worth it – doesn’t his friend realises as much? 

And then John quips, something about how suggestive that was a minute ago, and it throws Sherlock for a loop. John doesn’t want him like that, does he? He’s made that all too clear – but then why? He replies the same way he would if John was serious, letting him know he doesn’t care about anyone’s opinion. Just John’s, though that’s more implied than clearly stated. Sherlock has more and more things he’s too embarrassed to properly admit out loud. But John is brighter than most, and he will understand what he can’t say…won’t he? (And if not, he’s laughing with John right now, and that’s good enough. Probably too good for him, in fact.)

Before they can even think about going home – and finally getting that tea – the snipers are back. And Moriarty with them. _Oh God, don’t tell me that the ‘pause for thought’ was five bloody minutes_ , Sherlock begs in his head. At least the consulting criminal apologises for barging in on them and changing idea.

“I’ve thought about it. I really don’t think I can allow you to survive if you spurn me, after all. I wanted to hope with a bit more time you’d see reason and join me by your own free will, or I would find the right words to persuade you, but truth is we’re soulmates, darling. Anything I could say has already crossed your head, hasn’t it?” Jim says, way too cheerful.

“Then my answer has crossed yours,” Sherlock replies. He can’t and won’t join the consulting criminal in his chaos-breeding. If this gets him and John killed – well, John had no qualms about dying with and for him minutes ago. Of course, he’d like it better to be the only one dying, while his friend got to live on and be happy. But truth is, even dying together sounds far more appealing than it should probably be.

Of course, he’d hate for Moriarty to survive this and triumph…but there’s Mycroft. If nothing else, his lazy, annoying, smarter brother can be counted on for revenge. He won’t let the murderer of his younger sibling go unpunished, not even should that require a measure of much hated legwork on his part – though he will more probably tip Lestrade anonymously.

John nods, agreeing that death is definitely better than Sherlock joining his crazed stalker…but just when he’s getting ready to shoot the bomb (why should he let the snipers do all the work when he can try to bring Moriarty with them?) the consulting criminal receives a call. And changes idea once again. Of course, they should be grateful, but it’s mentally exhausting. Can’t the man stick with a decision and see it to its end?

“Home. Quick,” John orders, as soon as they’re alone again. Sherlock can only nod and follow as swift as his legs can carry him. And if John holds his hand in the cab – to reassure which of them he’s not sure – the sleuth is very, very far from protesting.

Once in Baker Street, John beelines for the kitchen while the detective goes to fetch his violin. His notes are as confused and agitated as his thoughts, though. A moment later, John arrives with a smile and a cup of his perfect tea. Sherlock takes it with a grateful humming and downs half in one gulp. As always, it tastes like home.

“You really needed that,” John quips, smiling. Instead of replying or thanking him, Sherlock picks his violin back. This time, the notes flow easily, in a soft-spoken, meditative, affectionate piece. His flatmate curls up  on the sofa to enjoy the concert – and Sherlock drifts at his side. Almost like in the cab, and once again they touch – John sliding his feet in Sherlock’s lap, keeping him here – though it should be the sleuth the one with the deeper urge to keep his friend secreted away, safe from everything. Instead, he keeps playing, and when John’s eyes close, he smiles and drags a last pensive note before cuddling against him more fully.            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mo anam should be Irish for 'my soul'. If Google Translate is wrong please let me know!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I still own nothing. I promise to inform you all if Mofftiss gifts Sherlock to me (yeah, as if LOL)

John needs a healthy dose of normal after the whole Moriarty business. They haven’t caught him, and it terrifies him that a criminal mastermind obsessed with his flatmate is still on the run. But they’ve been allowed a reprieve, and John decides he’s going to go on with his life and pretend his life doesn’t turn around his sociopathic friend and the games he’s involved with.

 

Since for some mysterious reason, despite everything that happened during the Blind Banker case, Sarah still considers herself his romantic partner, he decides to concentrate on her. After he’d run away from her at the start of this latest case he hadn’t even sent her one apologising text, so now he does, explaining in few words how hectic and absurd his life has become lately and pleading for an occasion to make it up to her and make her a very happy woman.

It’s John who suggests taking a holiday together, and it’s not just because Adam invited him relentlessly since they stroke up a good friendship in Afghanistan that he proposes New Zealand. He needs to get away from his overwhelming flatmate, the emergencies he creates, his needy texts and the way he always manages to ruin any date. Being poles apart should _(should_ ) be enough to protect them from Sherlock’s influence.

Sarah is keen on this holiday together, smiling at the prospect and thinking it will all be very romantic. Sherlock, instead, tries to dissuade him. It doesn’t surprise John – no doubt the man wants him to his beck and call for hare-brained errands. Though his arguments are compelling.

“You don’t need to change hemisphere to bed her. She wants to get off as much as you do. And if you really want to go on holiday, why in God’s name the set of the Lord of the Rings’ movies? Have you not heard enough hobbit jokes about you in your teenage years? Why not…oh I don’t know. Sussex maybe?” the sleuth complains. And considering his knowledge of popular movies, his flatmate is either a closet Tolkien nerd or he has researched New Zealand once John mentioned it. In order to dissuade him. Which is…flattering, almost.

“Because I don’t have friends in Sussex,” John replies easily, when the true answer would be ‘because you’d come and drag me away from Sussex for a five or higher. Maybe even to get the milk.’

Whether because he’s aware of being lied to (though the doctor certainly hopes not) or because he’s jealous of John having other friends than him (but he wouldn’t would he? I mean, they’re not kids anymore) the detective makes a face at his answer.   

And so John is on a plane, Sarah cuddled beside him, and talking excitedly about how wonderful it’s going to be, and how scared she was when after running away from her John didn’t contact her anymore, because she just knew he would be risking his life with his crazy flatmate again. “I know you were in the army, but you don’t need to put yourself on the line anymore, John. You’ve done your duty,” she says.

“Sorry Sarah, I didn’t mean to make you anxious,” he replies, renouncing at the idea to explain to her that he’s not helping Sherlock for some misplaced sense of duty, but because it’s the most alive he’s ever felt ever – even if it scares him, what might happen, and what it might mean to the blogger.

And then they’re finally in New Zealand, Andrew is winking at him and welcoming them (with a hobbit joke, the sleuth was right about that), and after a stroll they get to the bed…and despite Sarah kissing him a few times, he falls asleep on her like a log. Oh well. Twelve hour differences are enough to confuse anyone’s internal clock. He will do better. Give her the proper romance they’ve come here seeking.

The following day, they visit breath-taking places (including some places that were sets of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, to Andrew’s helpful suggestion and Sarah’s insistence – she seems to find the idea very funny). To have his revenge, John proposes having bungee jumping from the Kawarau bridge into the gorge (to be honest, he’s mildly disappointed that humongous king statues are not part of the scenery, himself). It might not be particularly romantic, but Sarah is a good sport, and understands that a good dose of adrenaline is the best way to keep John happy.

Especially because he’s disappointed, instead of happy, about his flatmate not texting much – well, for his standards at least. There are maybe a dozen texts a day from Sherlock, when they’d arrive easily in a hour when he was back in London. John’s trying to tell himself that the git is being considerate, but Sherlock doesn’t do considerate does he? No, probably he just knows that John can’t come back on any of his whims, so that’s why he limits himself to the odd, “Bored,” and “We have no milk,” not to mention the famous, “Did anyone get murdered there still? I might join you for a four,” which makes John smile when he really shouldn’t, because he’s come here trying to get away from Sherlock, so why is he missing him? He’s with Sarah! He should want for nothing.

To make it up to Sarah, he brings her in the best, most romantic restaurant (according to Andrew) and showers her with compliments. He even ignores one of Sherlock’s texts which comes midway through dinner, even though he’s curious what he might be saying (to be fair, he most probably complains about Mrs. Hudson’s cooking skills – the woman promised John to keep her lodger fed, so that he won’t have to come back to a passed out in hunger flatmate).

Afterwards, they retire to their room, and John is firmly decide to show his girlfriend that he can make her see stars…and then. Then simply John can not get it up. It’s really embarrassing, not to mention the first time it happened to him. Why now? He knows often it’s just stress, but John has always thrived on stressful situations. Is he putting too much importance on this relationship because Sarah is his boss too and it backfired? Or maybe it’s something else? He’s forgotten all about the causes of erectile dysfunction. (Wait, there are some drugs, ain’t they? Sherlock wouldn’t dose him with a slow acting one before he left, would he? He’s not so mean).

Of course, that he can’t make love to her doesn’t mean that he can’t satisfy her in other ways (and he most certainly does, he must prove his ability – they haven’t had sex yet, and if things continue this way they’re never going to), and he does, much to Sarah’s pleasure.

The fact that she’s not required to do anything in exchange leaves her feeling more than a bit selfish, but they agree to blame it on a rest of jet lag (which might be actually the weakest excuse imaginable, but is better than really questioning the why) and actually laugh about it, a bit strained though it is. Really, John is too lucky. How has he managed to get her?

He might as well check Sherlock’s message right now. “Got a case. At most a three. So nothing worth blogging about either way. SH.” And still, John can’t help but miss being on a case. At least things would be less awkward for him. And he can’t help but feel a twinge of worry – what if he’s attacked? Anyway, Sherlock managed cases without him for years, he tells himself firmly, so there’s no reason to wonder about him. Sarah. His priority is Sarah. Not cases (and certainly not cases worth only a three in Sherlock’s scale).

The following day Sherlock does not text at all, which makes John totally distraught. His friend is known to occasionally misinterpret how much a case is worth. And even a simple case might turn ugly if his friend goes after a murderer alone and is taken by surprise. The doctor is sorely tempted to give a call to Lestrade, or Mrs. Hudson, or God help him even Mycroft (if anyone knows what Sherlock is up to it would be his stalker brother) but then he firmly tells himself not to be an idiot. Sherlock might have solved this already and simply be his lazy self. Why, maybe he’s not up yet – for all that he doesn’t like to sleep when there’s something to do, his flatmate can be awfully indolent when it suits him.

Sarah notices his being preoccupied, of course, and asks him if anything is wrong. “Nothing,” he assures her, apologising, and tries to concentrate on the wonderful, caring woman at his side. Or the amazing sights Andrew suggested for their excursion of today. Or anything that is not Sherlock bloody Holmes. How is it that is flatmate haunts him even poles apart? John needs to start building a life for himself. One that does not orbit around Sherlock. Is it his friend’s name that makes it so damn difficult for him? (Not his Sherlock, he reminds himself sharply for the millionth time).

Thank God that at dinner he finally receives a text. This time there’s no way that he’s not going to check what it says. A million possibly anguishing news run through his mind. _Solved it. It turned out to be a five, after all. You’d have liked it. SH_ Oh. So he was just busy with the case. And he’s not hurt (he’d have mentioned if he was right?) He’s not captured. He’s not anything. Perfect. That’s…perfect. He starts answering before he realizes that it’s a rude thing to do while on a date. _You’ll have to tell me all about it when I’m back._ _J John_ Of course, he receives the reply he expects. _Emoticons are juvenile. SH_ Maybe they are, but his relieved smile needed to come across. Just then, a pointed look from Sarah reminds him he’s not even supposed to be texting. He sends a last one anyway. _I’m on a date – can’t text._ And Sherlock replies – because the git just has to have the last word – _Why are you doing it, then? SH_ That, John leaves without an answer. After all, no doubt his flatmate can deduce the reason by himself. “Sorry, it was Sherlock,” he finally apologises “he’s been on a case, and I was worried what might have happened to him.”

“So that’s what was wrong with you today. Is he fine?” she queries.

“Yes. Yes he is,” John replies – and he’s finally breathing right for the first time today.

“I do like that of you, John – how much you care for the people you love. Especially since I’m one of them,” she remarks, smiling.

“You’re the one I love the most,” the former army doctor replies, smiling widely at her. He’s gotten off easy hasn’t he?

Later, in their room, they’re kissing, and this time he has no problems at all about making love to her. He’s pleasing her, and having a jolly good time. This. This is what his life should be. Loving, and loved, pleasure and her smile and how long has he gone without it? Too long. The more he gets involved with making love, the more his mind blessedly blanks out. It’s almost a Buddhist experience – he guesses reaching nirvana might be very close to this. He doubts Buddhist meditation is half as fun, though.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, entirely blissed out, his mind not connected at all to his mouth. It’s the only reason he can possibly scream, “Sherlock!” the moment he comes. Of course, it doesn’t go very well.

Sarah is forgiving, and understanding, but even she has limits. She pushes him sharply off her. “What the fuck, John?”

“No, look, God, Sarah, I’m sorry, it’s not what you think, I swear,” he blabbers.

“Explain,” she utters coldly, frowning. She’s using coldness to cover the hurt. He’s hurt her, and he didn’t mean to do so. He never wanted to.

“It’s not him,” are John’s first, hurried words.

“Somehow I find that hard to believe,” Sarah spits out, sarcastic. “Sherlock isn’t exactly a common name.”

Instead of countering, John shows her his soulname.

“John, you’re really _not_ helping your case here. No wonder he invited himself to our date! It’s amazing that he let you do such things without showing up to drag your trashy self back home,” Sarah hisses.

“It’s not bloody him, ok? _His_ soulmate’s dead. He told me so himself. Bloody text him if you don’t believe me! And I wasn’t thinking of him right now. I suppose – I was feeling so good right now that I felt like I was with my soulmate, hence why I called you with her name,” thee blond doctor yells, frustratedly throwing his arms in the air.

“Her name?” she queries, raising an incredulous eyebrow.

“Look, I bloody like girls. Who’s to say Sherlock isn’t a gender neutral name? I mean, it must be. I’m not in bloody love with with my bloody flatmate!” John protests vehemently.

“Swearing like a brain-damaged sailor, who only remembers one swear word, isn’t going to help your case either, John. If anything, the only thing it makes me think is, the lady doth protest too much – though I really can’t call you ladylike. This was nice, sure, but…soulmate-worthy? It wasn’t. I don’t know if your mind was still on Sherlock’s case, or if you do are involved despite whatever you say, or even if you’re really not his soulmate. Or if he’s yours but you aren’t his,” Sarah replies coldly, and progressively more venomously. “What I do know is that I can’t keep being involved with you if you won’t do me the common courtesy of knowing who you’re fucking. I have more self-respect than that.” She starts to pack her things, eager to move out – to be back in her own home, in London.

“Sarah!” he whines piteously, trying to persuade her. “I’m sorry, but I’m really not –”

“I’ll see you at work, John. And you’re lucky to be such a fantastic doctor, or I’d consider letting you have the whole day to bond with your soulmate, no silly shift to come between you,” she says, leaving without looking back.

Oh well. At least he’s not out of a job. He’s messed up royally, but this holiday won’t render him broke. See? He knew that she’d take things the wrong way. This is why he needs to hide his soulname to the world. Nobody would believe him otherwise.

 

John comes back from his supposedly week-long holiday earlier than planned, and that is a good thing. A very good thing, as far as Sherlock is concerned. If only because he’ll finally get to have some decent tea. And because Lestrade will insist less that he should bring cops with him for backup when investigating. Gavin suggested Donovan, can you believe that? As if they could stand each other for more than five minutes. Now John will be back on cases, and everything will be right once again (and no, he’s not missed John, he just finds him…convenient).

“Convenient. Yeah, sure. Keep telling yourself that,” teen Sherlock snarls sarcastically from the attic.

“Shut up!” his adult self grumbles angrily.

The detective has behaved quite marvellously lately, not begrudging John his holiday with Sarah too much (despite finding the whole idea distasteful – did John really need to flee so far to cater to his bodily needs?) and doing his best to not cockblock his friend like John had complained so often that he always did. Hence cutting down on the texting, even if he wanted to every seven minutes on average. But it was all-too-clear that John was not searching for romantic places to woo his boss, he was fleeing from Sherlock (wanting ‘space’ he supposes you’d say) and so he’d restrained himself, no matter how annoying it had been. Thank God that case that had taken his mind off the need to talk to John (but not off John himself, whose absence from his side Sherlock felt like an utterly wrong shift in the time-space continuum).

At the very least, John should turn up happy, and sated, and satisfied with Sherlock giving him the space he wanted so bad. Instead (only because his holiday has been cut short? Well, it wasn’t the detective’s fault this time at least) when his flatmate comes back, he’s frustrated with the whole world. Well, that isn’t fair. He could have been frustrated at home, and Sherlock would have had his company. “If you didn’t get off enough times with Sarah yet, you could have stayed away,” the sleuth says petulantly once John snaps at him – over a trifle like, “Is it possible that there’s never milk for a decent cup of tea in this house unless I’m the one buying it?” too.

“Sarah broke up with me – and don’t tell me you hadn’t deduced it already, you great git,” the doctor quips angrily.

He might have if he wanted to, surely – but he tries not to think about his flatmate’s sex life, if John isn’t flaunting it in his face (which, to be honest, most of the time he actually is).

Still, there’s something odd going on with John – while he says this, he blushes, embarrassed. Being dumped should not evoke that reaction. Not in someone who’s engaged in the dating game since adolescence.

Sherlock levels his flatmate with an inquisitive look, his curiosity piqued, now determined to come to the bottom of this mystery. John jumps, as if scalded, and takes quick refuge in the kitchen, away from his friend’s prying eyes.

“Oh no you don’t! Don’t you dare deduce me about this, Sherlock!” he yells from safety.

“Oh come on! How bad can it be?” the sleuth yells back, the shadow of a whine in his voice. He’s really curious, now.

“I won’t evermore be in the same room as you, Sherlock!” John threatens now, half scared and half angry.

“We live together – you won’t be able to!” the detective bits back, affecting more certainty than he possesses. John wouldn’t, would he? Not over such a trifle.

“Try me!” his blogger yells back. It might be a temporary thing, of course, but does Sherlock really want to lose his company over the breakup with _Sarah_ for an unspecified length of time (and John can be bloody stubborn, he knows that by now)? Have to wait for Mrs. Hudson’s tea (and she’ll assume John is catering to him and not come anymore) or make his own? With the trip length, he’s waited almost four days for a decent cup of tea.

“Fine! I won’t deduce you, John. Just come back here!” the sleuth – not pleads, he doesn’t ever plead. He’s demanding, that’s what he is doing. And if his tone is less demanding and more whining, John is not going to hold it against him.

As soon as John is back, all things are clear, of course. “As I am your friend and not a prospective romantic partner, you do not have to keep your reputation and hide so hard from me not being able to perform the once. It happens to everyone, John,” he can’t help but mention. Really, his blogger should not be so embarrassed. He doesn’t see Sherlock as a prospective romantic partner…does he?

“Sherlock!” the doctor yells, more embarrassed and frustrated than angered luckily, but then looks almost – relieved. Because Sherlock has not mocked him for it? Probably. His other friends probably would have, the sleuth realizes suddenly. Then again, they don’t appreciate John half as much as the man deserves.

“I can’t turn deducing off and on. It’s my brain. It doesn’t work like that! Can you stop thinking? Nevermind, you probably can,” he tries to explain. Judging from John’s glare, he’s told the wrong thing again. He can’t ever do the right thing, can he? “Tea?” he adds hopeful, the way a child would ask, “Peace?” after arguing with a friend.

“I’m not getting to the shop for milk right now. I’m knackered,” John points out, grumpy.

“We can borrow Mrs. Hudson’s. She won’t begrudge us enough for a couple of cups,” the detective says with utter certainty.

“You go down and ask her – it’s your fault that there isn’t any in the house in the first place. I’ll put the kettle on,” his friend finally caves in with a put-upon sigh. This suits Sherlock. It suits him very much. Perfect John tea coming in minutes, finally.

Mrs. Hudson’s naturally agrees, as she’s kindness personified. But she clicks her tongue once at Sherlock and tells him, gently reproaching, “You really shouldn’t rather do without things than go shopping, Sherlock. You can’t expect John or myself to get everything for you all the time. It doesn’t work like this when you care about people.”

He takes the milk and the scolding with a vague, “Yes, yes, Mrs. Hudson.” She knows he cares for John - but doesn’t know how much, does she? Well, she can’t, Sherlock himself is not sure how much he loves his flatmate some days. It’s all so confusing. Anyway, she knows, Moriarty knows (that’s what he was implying when he kidnapped his doctor), Mycroft knows (but only because he knows everything in the world)…If it continues like this, everyone will figure out that he has a heart, despite his claims to the contrary. That simply won’t do. He has to do something (but what?).

That’s something to ponder another time. He gets back to John, bringing him the milk with a smile, and a moment later receives in exchange a cup of perfect tea. He inhales the aroma, loving it, takes a little sip and sighs in pleasure. He doesn’t moan at least, though he’s been in danger to do so. “I missed this,” he admits without thinking.

“Well, good to know that my tea-making skills made you miss me. Why so few texts from you, then? There was no ‘You should be here making my tea. SH’ in my inbox,” John teases gently.

“I thought you didn’t want to hear from me while you were busy making love with Sarah. How was I to know that she was stupid enough to be in the process of breaking up with you?” Sherlock replies, taking another, longer sip of liquid heaven.

“You were being considerate,” his blogger says, sounding incredulous.

“I can be. On occasion. Don’t expect it often, though,” the detective warns, smirking.

“Don’t worry, I won’t. And here I thought the reason was that you had already got bored of me,” the doctor quips, with a grin of his own.

“You’re the least boring person I know, John,” the sleuth admits honestly. He can’t imagine ever being bored of his flatmate. John is such a delightful nest of contradictions. Sherlock could easily spend all his life unravelling it. (But he won’t, of course, they won’t last that long – they won’t last long at all, in all probability. John will get fed up with him and leave, like everyone else ever does.)

“Wow, that’s quite the compliment, coming from you,” John acknowledges, “I’m honoured.”

“You should be,” the detective counters teasingly.

His flatmate shakes his head in fond exasperation. Truth be told, he’s missed this easy banter, it’s quite obvious. Never as much as Sherlock missed it – truth be told, he’s been awfully lonely these past days, Mrs. Hudson’s well-meaning intrusions notwithstanding. He used to be alone all the time, but never lonely. Living with John is changing him – and not for the better. He’s not about to give it up, though. Certainly not. (But he can’t turn needy now, either. He’s over thirty, for God’s sake. He must be a strong, independent man.)

Then John surprises him, once again (how can Sherlock ever tire of him?). “I missed you,” he says simply. They were British. The sleuth was sure that they simply didn’t talk feelings.

“Sarah wasn’t sufficiently engaging?” he can’t help but ask, gleefully hoping for a resounding yes.

“No, she was great, and despite how it ended…well, I had fun. We went bungee jumping, you know? Might go back at Andrew’s sometime, if only for that. I think you’d have liked it, too. But I guess I am used to being texted every ten minutes by now. Not knowing what you were up to, I couldn’t help but be concerned,” his friend replies, laughing.

“Ugh. Don’t say concerned, please. You sound like Mycroft,” the detective demands, making a face at the idea.

“Sorry. But your brother isn’t that bad, you know. At least he cares for you,” John points out, thinking bitterly about Harry and how with her dependence she doesn’t care about anyone anymore. Not even herself, much less John, no matter what she says when trying to guilt trip him into something.

“Don’t be fooled, John. Mycroft only cares about food, if he cares at all. Oh, and his umbrella, naturally. He wants me to be well simply because otherwise it would reflect badly on him. Mycroft is all about keeping appearances, and nothing else,” Sherlock rants. He didn’t mean to. Things just… slip out when he’s with John. He isn’t as careful, as guarded as he’s always been. It is a huge relief, to be able to say everything that’s in his mind without fear of judgement. (His doctor never, ever has mocked him, or used what he revealed against him – that makes him unique.) But Sherlock isn’t sure that he isn’t growing too relaxed. Won’t this carefree sharing come bite him in the ass sooner or later?

“If you say so. As a younger sibling myself, I’d like to know that Harry would look after me a quarter of what Mycroft does, though. Even if I’d probably happily do without the stalking via CCTV,” the doctor admits with a smile.

“You can’t have the one without the other. If you like him so much, I’ll be glad if you want to borrow Mycroft as big brother and take him off my back,” the detective declares, with a slight pout.

“I don’t think he’d agree. But now let’s forget Mycroft and tell me all about your case, mmm? Or have you deleted it already?” John prompts gently.

“Oh no, I’ve not deleted it yet. I knew you’d want to hear about it – what sort of blogger would you be otherwise?” the sleuth replies, joining his hands in his usual thinking pose to aid the recollection of every detail. More than ‘knowing’ John would be interested, in truth, he had hoped so – hoped that John would be eager even for a second-hand experienced case. The man likes their investigations almost as much as Sherlock himself, and the detective is delighted by such an attitude. He recounts the recent case without indulging to say how much he’s missed his friend, but going through each tiny detail – many of which make John smile and, in one glorious occasion, giggle (God but the man has a lovely laugh).

“Wish I’d been with you. Did you really deduce it all from one stray cat?” his friend remarks at the end of his tale, still laughing.

“Do not make me repeat myself, John. Of course I did. Why would I lie?” Sherlock bits back, pouting.

“Oh no I wasn’t accusing you. But well, you’ve been very lucky then, haven’t you? What if it’d been run over?”

“Then I would have to find other clues. But I would have solved it, John. Of course I would have,” the sleuth counters. Luck means nothing. Only his brain matters.

“Of course you would have,” John echoes, appeasing, and no matter how much Sherlock hates repetition, his pout vanishes and he’s mollified. From anyone else it could sound sarcastic, a mocking, but John is honestly believing that Sherlock could solve anything, no matter how flimsy the clues he was given (well, maybe excluding Cluedo – but that is a game with illogic rules, and does not matter), and it is flattering.

“Pity I won’t be able to blog about this – I wasn’t there, and well, I try to blog about things I’ve been there for. You might want to make a post on the Science of Deduction, though. “About animal alopecia and its significance.” Might be funny to read,” the doctor suggests with a smile.

“My blog is not supposed to be funny. And animal alopecia is a too-wide topic, that would undoubtedly require plenty of experimenting beforehand. On different species,” the detective remarks with a mischievous look.

“Oh no, you aren’t bringing a number of mangy strays inside the flat. Forget I said anything. In fact, delete it right now – I want to see you do it,” his friend orders, not entirely mock-sternly.

“I can go into my mind palace, of course, but you wouldn’t be able to know what I’m doing in there,” the sleuth points out, annoyingly reasonable.

“You better delete this experiment, because if you don’t, the day you are finally bored enough to try it I will make you adopt them all,” John says seriously.

“Shouldn’t that be a threat for Mrs Hudson rather than me? I doubt she wants so many pets in the house forever,” Sherlock states, with a little smug smirk.

“Oh no it’s a threat to you, Mr, because they’re going to be your pets – which means that you are the one who will have to care for them all. Feeding, and cleaning, and walking, and petting, and making sure they don’t destroy the house – why, depending on the dimensions of your experiment, you might need to move to a bigger house. One with a big garden,” John states matter-of-factly.

“You wouldn’t chase me away from the flat over one scientific experiment which you suggested, would you, John?” the other gasps, horrified. His friend has just returned and he’s already talking of – of forcing him to move away. That must not happen.

The doctor does not reply, only levels him with a look that says clearly, “Try me.”

With a huff, Sherlock plops down on the sofa and starts clearing his recent memory cache from the blasted thing. He will remember this deletion was under constraint, though, and sulk about it. John will have to make a lot of tea to make it up to him.    


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

John shouldn’t let the end of the relationship with Sarah make him blue, or awkward, or Sherlock will hound him for other reasons beside these he has already unearthed for his discomfort, and then things will be simply impossible. Thank God that the detective is known to occasionally miss things – as Harriet’s phone demonstrated – and once he embarrassed John sufficiently, he didn’t think to delve deeper.

If he discovered that he’s a homonym – well, then every word or act of John (as if he isn’t confused enough by his own feelings) would be examined. “Are you doing this because you’re misguided by my name?” John honestly doesn’t have an answer to that. He doesn’t think so…most of the time. But the things he instinctively does for Sherlock go a bit further than the best of friendship, do they not? 

In the end, with his mood being all over the place, he settles for frustrated. He should still be fucking Sarah in New Zealand. Instead, he’s back home and without a prospect of future sex unless he picks up someone in a pub or something. He’s allowed to be frustrated – sexually frustrated – surely. Sherlock won’t question that.

After half a day during which John is maybe more grouchy than he should have (but he’s still haunted by the name that slipped out in New Zealand and afraid that his bloody omniscient flatmate might somehow read it out of him, so better not be too friendly), the detective declares loudly, “We need a case.”

The wording strikes John as unusual. For the first time, it’s not, “ _I_ need a case.” Or, “ _My_ brain is rotting.” No, this time Sherlock recognises that his friend might need a case as bad as he – and to take his mind off recent failures, he certainly does. A shot of adrenaline will stop him from thinking back to what happened during that ill-fated holiday.

“Well, what do we have? Anything on your blog?” the doctor asks, moving to check his own. Hopefully there will be something good. He’s not hoping for a locked door mystery, but at least something that keeps them running for the rest of the day – maybe the following day, too. He’s becoming fond of not sleeping with Sherlock, though it doesn’t entail any of the things that used to keep him awake at night (which might or might not involve a bed – or a table – or a wall). 

They are lucky, because – through John’s blog, which is – whatever Sherlock might think of it – the way more popular of the two – they find a nice murder waiting for them in Brixton.  An apparent drug overdose, with the victim self-mutilating in a drug-induced fit, but the victim’s sister is adamant that her brother had never been an addict. “Not even a joint! Ever! You have to restore my brother’s good name and find his murderer, please,” Gillian Pond says vibrantly, when she’s invited to the flat. She looks on the brink of crying, and John knows that that’s his cue for tea. Before Sherlock can say something insensitive.

Anyway, Sherlock takes the case – though he suspects that it will not pass a five, probably even lower in his personal scale, but hey, John needs cheering up so he’s willing to take anything at the moment. After a short exam of the crime scene, he has to confirm Gillian’s words. The man was not an addict – if only the police had taken a look around it should have been painfully obvious. Ergo, they have a nice murder. Plus torture. Couldn’t hope for better (though better not to say so to their client).

They start to investigate their victim – Gary Pond, accountant – to try and discern which motives could drive anyone to such violent acts. At first, John suspects the mafia. He could have had shady dealings, and tried to dupe his own bosses. Both drug and torture would be congruous with the mafia’s style. When he tries to tell as much to Sherlock, though, he’s immediately shot down.

“Mafia might have plenty of drugs on hand, but they wouldn’t try to pretend that one of their executions were an overdose or another accident of some sort. They’d want everyone to know that the traitor has been dealt with accordingly,” the detective counters, shaking his head.

“Then what are you doing?” he queries.

“Checking his Facebook. He’s gushing over a girl he’s met – a certain Deb Evans, barista. They hit it off famously, apparently,” the sleuth relates with a grimace – no doubt at said sentimental gushing.

“And do you think she could be involved?” John asks, curious.

“I won’t think anything until I’ve met her, preferably – or at least managed to find much more information about her. It is a capital error to make theories without having all the facts first. One always ends up twisting the new data to make them fit into one’s preconceived theory. And that’s what judicial errors are made of, John,” Sherlock scolds him, shaking his head. “Say, do you fancy a coffee?”

“I could go for a latte, maybe,” the blogger agrees promptly.

They do not find Deb at the café she works at, apparently her shift starts later, but instead of going away in a huff, Sherlock leans in and turns up the charm when the barista, a buxom redhead, whines, “Why do all the attractive boys want Deb?”

“We do not want her, per se,” the detective says, with a blinding smile, “ she’s just a friend of a friend and we thought we might chat a moment.”

“Your friend doesn’t happen to be Gary, is he?” the redhead queries, raising an eyebrow.

“And if he was?” Sherlock bits back, not affirming nor denying. John, at his side, metaphorically perks up his ears.

“Tell him to dump her. Whichever Gary he is. She doesn’t deserve him,” the barista grouses bitterly.

“Whichever Gary?” John asks, one eyebrow shooting up in surprise.

“She’s dating at least three of them. All named Gary – oh she’s clever. She won’t moan the wrong name that way. But I hear her chatter, and she’s definitely not talking only of one Gary – there’s the accountant,” she explains, eager to ruin her colleague’s relationships, “and the computer programmer, and the trainer. Now tell me they could be all the same man. It’s not fair, that’s what I say.”

“Very unfair,” John agrees, nodding.

“We will certainly tell Gary, the accountant,” the detective assures, gaining a smile. “But we should give him some evidence. Do you know anything else about these people beside their profession?”

The woman is only too willing to tell them everything she knows – and something she supposes besides. Sherlock hears her out with rapt attention. Too many murders he’s know of were born from people with multiple, mutually unaware relationships.    

Afterwards, they try to find these other Gary. After all, one of them might have realised and had a fit of jealousy…now, imagine John’s surprise (he won’t speak for Sherlock, though) when a day later, when they finally narrow it down, they discover that the second Gary – the computer programmer – ‘committed suicide’ a couple of weeks ago.

“She’s cleaning up after herself. Eliminating all the Gary she lured in at first,” Sherlock declares, eyes shining.

“Sherlock? You haven’t even seen her yet. How do you know it wasn’t the third one?” John queries, uncertain.

“The gym trainer? Unless he’s very much different from his colleagues, he wouldn’t have staged accident or suicides. They are the type who tends to bash heads in – passionate but mindless. I’m more afraid he might become our third victim, if he isn’t already,” the detective states. “Anyway, whether I’m right or you are, we need to find him posthaste.”

They certainly do. But he’s the one they have less clues about. They might simply follow one Deb waiting she brought them to him, but they discover she’s left her apartment. They slip in after Sherlock opens the front door (both of them, for once, Sherlock allowing John with him) and it’s too empty for Deb to mean to return here.

She could have simply just moved, but it seems too much of a coincidence that she’d move after two of her boyfriends have been killed. Neither John nor Sherlock believe in this kind of coincidences. “She’s gone to him, now,” the doctor grits out, suddenly realising it – just like he understood that Sherlock was in a cab with a serial killer.

“I know!” the sleuth yells. There must be some way he can figure it out, some clue, something.

John tries to console himself with “Well, at least he might fight back.” From what they heard, the gym trainer was some sort of martial arts expert.

“Fight! Right, John!” the detective exclaims, frenetically searching martial arts tournaments results in search of some Gary Londoner.

They do find a name, and soon an address. A cab, with the promise of double the fare if they can be there in under ten minutes, and after running a few red lights they are in front of Gary Ellsworth’s house. All is quiet. Very quiet. They fear it might be too late.

Once again, Sherlock puts his picklocking skills to good use. They enter the house silently, moving from room to room. Empty. All empty. Maybe she’d taken him and brought him somewhere? But then they finally started to hear an angry whisper.

“You’re all identical. Right from the first one, the one who raped me. You only have one thing in mind, all of you. Well, I have to get rid of you before you hurt someone else, don’t you see?” It comes from the bedroom.

Sherlock slams its door open, hoping to attract the clearly insane murderer’s attention and divert it from the victim who’s not responding, so it’s at least gagged, more probably drugged as he doesn’t hear even a mumble. Hopefully not already dead. John very much doesn’t want to be too late again – and he knows Sherlock feels the same.

Now, John is sure that Sherlock didn’t expect the gun. He hadn’t expected it either. He hadn’t thought a martial artist would feel the need to buy one, and as these have been pretend accidents or suicides he hadn’t factored the possibility of a gun in today’s job. Which is why he hadn’t even brought his along. With his military training, he was amply sufficient to protect Sherlock from criminals (even knife or syringe wielding criminals).

The slam of the door mixes with the bang of a gun, and for all that Sherlock is in front of him, it’s John that reacts quicker to that, instinct taking over. He tackles his companion, slamming him to the floor and covering his body, or as much of his body he can manage being shorter than him. Enough, at any rate, because the bullet finds its way in John’s body instead of Sherlock’s, and that’s fine, that’s good, that’s…ouch.

Sherlock rolls out from under him to lounge at the deranged Deb (a fake blonde with a nose product of a plastic surgeon), and before she can shoot again (it’s not an automatic firearm) much less aim he’s on her, disarming and hurling her against the wall, her head hitting it with a loud thump. She barely manages to moan, when he starts to strangle her. In seconds, she’s unconscious. Sherlock still doesn’t stop.

“Sherlock,” John calls, and then, more forcefully, “Sherlock! She’s not a danger anymore, so a little help, please?”

That seems to go through the detective’s brain. He lets the wannabe-serial killer go, to fold ungracefully on the floor, and gets back to his wounded friend. “What do I do, John?” he queries, voice shaking.

“Put pressure on the wound. We’re ruining your scarf, I’m afraid. Oh, and call 999, will you? I don’t think I can sew myself up this time,” the doctor grits out, in pain but trying to lighten up the situation. He’s been caught in his left side, and it shouldn’t be too bad, just painful, but it could have gone decidedly worse if the bullet had caught only a little bit closer to his heart. (As bad as Sherlock was.)

Sherlock somehow manages to do both at the same time, and insult the 999 operator to boot, then lets his mobile clatter to the floor and mumbles, “If you’d been killed I would have murdered her. I almost did anyhow.”

“But you didn’t,” John points out gently.

“Because you stopped me. If you hadn’t – well. I’m never going to become good, am I?” the sleuth wonders quietly.

“Do you think I’m good?” the doctor asks, holding back a moan of pain.

“Of course, John! You’re the best!” Sherlock assures vibrantly.

“Then relax. You’re good, Sherlock, no matter what anyone says. After all, you’re still very far from my body count,” the doctor bits back, trying his best not to be bitter about it. He had bad days. But he always, always did it to protect his own. That had to count for something, right? He feels faint though, so very faint, so he whispers, “Sherlock? I’m going to sleep a mo now. Don’t panic, ok?”

“John? John? Are you sure you should be sleeping? I don’t think you should,” the detective whimpers. Despite his friend’s words, panic mounts without him being able to push it down. More than asleep John looks fainted and that’s not good and what the hell is the ambulance doing – he’s sure he must have called the ambulance at least three minutes ago.

He tries to keep his friend from bleeding out on the ugly laminate wood floor. There’s John’s blood on his hands, when it should be the opposite, because John is the bloody doctor out of the two of them and what was his friend thinking taking a bullet for him – doesn’t he know that’s not good. Very not good. He’ll have to firmly scold John when he’s awake to hear it. (Because John is going to be awake and well again – the opposite is simply not an option.)

One hand still pressing the scarf against the wound, he lets the other trail down John’s arm to his wrist to take his pulse. He needs to feel the soft beating – to know John’s not slipping away from him yet. Instead of his friend’s skin, he finds his soulname-covering wristband. Of course. John’s always been very private about that – though now that his soulmate is dead, it should appear nothing more than an unreadable blob.

Well, Sherlock does not care about his friend’s privacy (and maybe – just maybe – he’s a tiny bit curious, too). He discards the bracelet in one swift move and his hand finds warm, inked skin under it – and a still steady pulse, thank God. If he glances at the name it’s just because he noticed it’s definitely no blob from the corner of his eyes and – well, he needs to know the secret John has guarded so well. The secret John has lied to protect. And – John’s partners have had all the names under the sun, never one recurring more often. It’s odd. He would have sworn that one with his friend’s partiality for romantic entanglement should be searching for his own soulmate if he still had the chance to find her (statistically probable it’s a her, given John’s choices).

What he sees he never expected (though part of him had always known). _Sherlock_ , he reads, in his own elegant cursive. He traces the letters with his fingers, incredulous, but there is no doubt. For the first time in decades, Teen Sherlock slams open the door to the attic of his mind palace, all the bolts falling down like autumn leaves, and runs to the sitting room, screaming, “What was I saying, you idiot? _My_ John. Always been my John – and always will be!”

“John,” he croaks, and it’s like he’s never said that name before, no matter how many time he’s worn it down, because it’s never been his John before, and he is, he is, he’s found him, he has the right one, together forever, perfect happiness and all the rest, and Mycroft is going to be so jealous now, and – That train of thought is brusquely interrupted by his brother’s likeness in the mind palace. “How can you be so childish? For God’s sake, read the clues, Sherlock! They’re going to bite you on the nose if you ignore them much longer!”

Because there’s an undeniable fact: John has known all along. He _must_ have known, Mummy's idea was singular, but effective...and John has. Not. Said. A. Word. In fact, he has _denied_ – loudly, consistently, and repeatedly – to be interested in Sherlock like that, when anyone hinted or misconstrued. Dr. John-I'-m-not-gay-Watson. _After_ meeting Sherlock, he has dated other people. Again and again and again. Seriously, Sherlock, how much more rejected _can_ you get?

It's unheard of. Soulmates never finding each other? Well, the world is big. It happens more often than it should. Soulmates barely missing each other? Merely a corollary on Murphy's Law (John did teach him about that, oh God). Soulmates dying (before, upon, after) meeting each other? Sad, sometimes tragic, but people die all the time. Bound to happen. Finding your soulmate and spurning him? What's so _wrong_ with Sherlock that would bring John to that? (He should ask Sally; she could probably offer him a fifty pages essay on the subject.)

Sherlock’s hand slips limply from John’s wrist, and he blindly reaches for the bracelet, which has always covered his name, to put it back. John can’t even stand to _see_ his name. That’s how much he doesn’t want to have Sherlock as his soulmate. And he’s right, of course. He’s right. Who would want to be saddled with Sherlock forever? It’s only natural that John dates, searching desperately for someone who’ll take him away from Baker Street. Why should he stay by the freak’s side? He can do so much better – pretty much with anyone.

Soulmates are a myth anyway. Yes, his parents seemed happy, but what does he know? He was so young when they died. That’s the only sure consequence of having a soulmate – death. He’s half tempted to bond here and now, with John unconscious, because there’s so much blood and what if John dies now. He doesn’t, though. If he didn’t really die, John would be beyond livid once he discovered it.

The ambulance finally arrives, as well as the police –somewhere amidst his almost incoherent ramblings to 999, Sherlock must have mentioned he had a murderer here, too – and Sherlock just looks while they each take their own. The ambulance offers him a ride, too, if he wants to be near his friend (and an orange blanket he once again fights against – he wonders if he looks in shock). Ten minutes before, the detective would have fought teeth and nail for the right to be near John while he was in such a precarious condition.

But now, he refuses to follow. There’s no reason to impose his unwanted presence on John any longer. His…soulmate must have it hard enough living with him. Should he offer to leave the flat? Fuck that, he decides a minute later. He’s rather fond of Mrs Hudson. John can be the one to move out when he’s got enough of him. That’s the actual aim of all that dating, isn’t it? Find a girlfriend to live with, happily ever after. (The one they should have had, if only Sherlock hadn’t been such a freak.)

He decides to walk home. He doesn’t care if it’s far away, he doesn’t care the odd looks his bloodied scarf garners (he doesn’t even notice it’s brown-red with John’s blood when he mechanically folds it around his neck), he doesn’t care about anything. He’s only trying to wrap his mind about being rejected – justly rejected, obviously rejected, what was he even thinking dreaming that someone might possibly love him as he is, hadn’t Mycroft taught him well – and that will take time to process. And if he’s distracted by his own deliberations and ends up run over, well, it’s not like anyone is going to care (well, Mrs Hudson will lose his rent, she might care about that).

So he walks, and walks, and when he finally arrives home – surprisingly whole, given London traffic and his level of attention – he’s exhausted, bedraggled and wet to the bone. It’s started raining midway through and he hasn’t even noticed – might be because, despite having run back to his attic and slammed the door behind him, teen Sherlock has been once again in control of him since he’s discovered his soulmate’s identity and, just like him, the sleuth has started quietly crying.

Mrs  Hudson must have noticed him, because she’s there in the hall murmuring, “Oh, Sherlock!”

“Sorry about trailing water, Mrs H,” he mumbles – that’s what she’s sad about, right?

“Forget the water! Is that blood?” the old woman queries, voice tremulous. So not even the rain managed to wash out John’s blood from his scarf. It’s logical, after all. There was so much…

“Not mine,” the detective hurries to reassure, even if just talking about it makes him nauseous. “John’s…” he admits, choking on the word.

“John’s? Where is he, dear?” his landlady asks, peering around as if she expects to see the doctor trailing behind his friend as ever.

“In hospital,” Sherlock explains. At Mrs Hudson’s shocked look, he volunteers, “He’s been shot. Where else should he be?”

“Shot?” the old woman echoes, her voice a high-pitched yelp. “Well then that begs the question, mister, why aren’t you with him?” she adds sternly.

The detective hates that Mrs Hudson is so much like his own mummy at times. Always ready to call out his bad behaviour, when there’s a need for it.

“He’ll like this better,” he whispers, defeat in his voice.

“Now don’t be ridiculous, dear. Of course John will want company in that dreadful hospital,” the landlady objects, laying a hand on his arm in comfort.

“No he won’t, at least not mine,” the sleuth insists, with dejected certainty.

“Even if you’ve had a quarrel during the case, I’m sure that John will forgive you, love. He always does,” she replies, grasping at straws. Sherlock is heartbreaking to watch – and he’s making no sense at all.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” he hisses back. If anything, he should be forgiving John for scorning him, rejecting him – and he does. He understands that no one sane could ever want him. But it rankles that even Mrs Hudson automatically assumes he’s the one who messed up. As if it’s always his fault (but it is, isn’t it? even that John doesn’t like him, it must be his fault).

“Then why don’t you come with me to the hospital? John’s going to want company,” the old woman presses on, stubborn. Everyone is stubborn in that house.

“I’m simply not going to. Cease your nattering,” he growls, tired and frustrated and – he’ll apologise later for being rude. He just can’t explain, and can’t take the well-meaning nagging now.

“Fine,” she agrees at the end. “I’m going alone. Just tell me where they brought him. When you are in this mood you won’t be of any comfort to poor John after all.”

Sherlock trudges up the stairs to 221B, murmuring the requested information without adding anything else. How can he be expected to be of any comfort when he himself needs it desperately? And why does Mrs Hudson not see it? She’s much more perceptive usually. But then, of course, now she’s worried over John. (He’s worried over John, too, but he’s too exhausted to panic again.)

He’s chilled to the bone, so he opts for a quick warm shower, dropping everything as he goes. He’ll tidy up later. He better do, otherwise John will yell at him if he comes back to find such a mess. Assuming he comes back. He has to, it won’t be the first bullet John survives, his unwilling soulmate is too stubborn to die…right? Mycroft will get him the best doctors. His brother won’t let him die, if only because they cooperate in handling Sherlock.

He thought he was too tired to have feelings again, but he’s apparently not. He hates this. In the end, he quietly steals into John’s room and lays on his bed, over the covers. Just a few minutes. Nobody has to know… He’s not even ended that thought that he’s out like a light, breathing John’s smell in with every sigh.

He’s awakened by a text from Lestrade. What does the inspector want? He’s gotten his murderer already. He wouldn’t have let her escape, would he? Sherlock will be seriously pissed if he has. Instead, he reads, _What the fuck are you doing? John’s asking after you – and he’s a patient just as awful as you are. Drag yourself here before someone is tempted to put him out his misery._

Oh. So John does really want his presence. Why, though? Unless – he’s read one of John’s medical journals in a fit of boredom once, and there was some study about people who had their soulmate having a higher success rate after major surgeries, but he thought an accomplished bond was needed to obtain these benefits, and John very much doesn’t want him.

Or does he now? Would the bullet be enough to persuade John to finalize the bonding between them for its healthy effects? Would he be expected to not care if John still dated and eventually left Baker Street with their soulmate bond recognized?

Before he can delve more in such reflections, he receives another text from Lestrade. _Sherlock! Do you want to solve his murder, too?_

_Coming. SH,_ he relents in the end. At the very least he owes John to let him explain what he wants instead of trying to deduce it alone.

So he dresses (the mess on the floor from before will have to wait) and takes a cab to the hospital. He actually hovers outside John’s room, unable to believe he’s really wanted in there. Until Lestrade comes out to get him – he doesn’t know how he’s felt the detective’s presence – and pushes him inside, with a, “Finally. I’m going to get a coffee.”

Sherlock stands awkwardly, just past the door, waiting for a sign.

“Come here, you git,” John says weakly, waving him close.

The sleuth obeys, stopping by the bed, but not making a move to touch his soulmate. If he wants to bond, John will have to initiate it.

“Where the hell were you?” the wounded man queries, a shadow of unreasonable hurt in his voice. As if _Sherlock_ had been the one deserting him, or something, instead of being the rejected party here.

“Sleeping,” he replies noncommittally, not volunteering any further details. (That’d be way too embarrassing.)

“Sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep,” John teases, with a charming grin, “but I need someone to take responsibility for me. They’ll grumble about me leaving, but if I tell them I have a flatmate at home that will ensure I won’t keel over they’ll be more incline to let me go. Of course, you don’t have to actually take care of me, don’t worry. I’m perfectly able to do that myself.”

“You called just for that?” Sherlock replies, half surprised and half…disappointed? Is he, really? But not even a bullet wound can make him desirable as a soulmate, despite the proven effects of a successful soul bond, and it hurts. The detective was uncertain about how he’d respond to such a request, but he can’t help but be upset by the umpteenth evidence of his unlovableness.

“No, I called because I wanted a violin concert!” his blogger huffs, exasperated. “Of course I called for that. I want to go home, Sherlock. Come on!”

Sherlock’s not entirely certain that is such a great idea, because if the other doctors will not be pleased – as much John has admitted – maybe they should follow their opinion, and give themselves a bit more of space too. But John doesn’t apparently want space at all, he wants 221B (and possibly violin concerts, was he sarcastic a moment ago? Sherlock is never sure reading people moods).

The least the detective can do for his soulmate (not to prove he’s an adequate choice, he can never be, just – to make their cohabitation a bit more unbearable for John, he guesses) is to give into his wishes, so the sleuth leaves, in search of the documents he has to sign to have John released into his care. And to call Mycroft – one of his limos will be decidedly more comfortable for John to ride on that a random cab. Mycroft likes John (but he doesn’t know, right? He can’t – Sherlock would be too ashamed to look him in the face otherwise) and will agree without much fuss. Though he will undoubtedly tease Sherlock for his partiality for his flatmate (if only he knew the full extent of it – it’d be so much worse) and probably try to extort some sort of favour in compensation. To which he might actually agree this time. A mission for Mycroft in Afghanistan sounds very nice at the moment, if only because it’d put some miles between him and John. And the first place that came to mind was Afghanistan, which is very John-related and…aargh. Sherlock is doomed.

When he gets back to John’s room, promising all is taken care of and they can go home soon, his soulmate offers him a brilliant smile and a heartfelt thanks, which is really more than he deserves for so little. Sherlock’s heart soaks up that smile and is elated (John needs so little to make him happy, despite having rendered him miserable up to a second ago).

They get home, to Mrs Hudson’s welcome. She had already visited John and been sent back on accounts of mother henning by a rather frustrated patient. She perfectly understood the frustration, though. The detective had not been around yet, and for some reason John had been so worried for him despite being the one hurt (well, Mrs. Hudson’s report on his tenant hadn’t been pleasing, after all), and his proverbial patience had suffered.

Now she has both her adoptive sons home and she can fuss some more over them. They are together – all will be well soon enough. And in the meantime, her suppressed maternal instincts are allowed to come into play.

Sherlock is grateful for his landlady’s interference, because it keeps him from being alone with John. Sure, his soulmate hasn’t behaved any different than he would have before the sleuth discovered the truth, showing him that bit of fondness that must be an act, because John must hate him if he rejects him entirely as a soulmate.

Or not? John is so confusing. Can the detective believe that John has at least a mite of honest affection for him, despite all the obvious flaws that have made John shun him as a life partner? He can’t figure it out – when his own blasted feelings are on the way, any power of observation he possesses gets skewed like that of any other idiot out there – and he most certainly can’t ask John and what is he supposed to do now?

Maybe he can…do absolutely nothing. Take his cues from John, who’s behaving normally – well, what passes for their norm anyway – and pretend he’s not discovered anything. Yes, that looks like a plan. Because if he confronts John with this, the only thing that can come from it is a lengthy rant about everything that is so utterly _wrong_ with him, to which he won’t be able to object anything, because that’s, you know, all true. And then John might very well decide to leave Baker Street if he feels cornered by his disappointing soulmate.

There’s no way he can make him change opinion about him. He’s going to take care of his hurt soulmate – of course he’s going to, it’s a need that itches under his skin the instinct to care for John, see him back to full health – but that’s only what any decent individual would do, especially being the cause for his wound in the first place. And he’ll probably manage to botch up that too. The more he offers to help him, the more suspicious John looks, actually.  He obviously suspects the detective is trying to turn him into an unaware guinea pig once again, clearly.

Sherlock doesn’t even protest against such unfair suspicions. He spends hours locked in his mind palace, trying to make sense of the situation, and to determine if anything he can do could turn John’s attitude – make it favourable to him. He tries being unobtrusively helpful. He tries stopping the nightly concerts – besides for the times John has nightmares, because it’s proven Sarasate helps then.

Hell, he tries even going up to the attic, metaphoric tail between his legs, and asking his teen self’s suggestions on the matter. After all, he’d been the first to unerringly recognize John as the other half of his soul. But the only thing his teen self can choke up is, “He was supposed to love us no matter what – no matter what we were.” True, John has never called him freak – or one of the countless variations thereof practically everyone uses (with the exception of Lestrade, who at least is bloody professional, and Molly, who’s too polite for that). But from this to actually loving him there’s an abyss Sherlock himself has apparently dug with his awful behaviour and now can’t move past and _why is it always his fault?_

He hates this. Hates this. Hates this. If he turned himself entirely around and became normal (the word leaves a bitter taste in his mouth)… Oh, well, then John would leave him even faster, because his soulmate is at least a bloody adrenaline addict – and normal Sherlock (or playing to be normal) would be too strained to go on cases. He can’t deduce and behave, he really can’t.

No, his only option is to make do with whatever measure of affection John can spare for him and prepare himself for the moment the love of his life (he can admit that much, if only to himself – the soulbond’s pull has always been strong on him) will decide to leave. Which is going to happen sooner rather than later. But until then, Sherlock will have John’s company – if nothing more – enjoy it and carefully not reproach John, should he drive him away all the faster.    


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: nothing mine (yet). A.N. I know, I know, I’m late. I had problems with my pc (my parents apparently managed to disable internet connection without realising). Also, I have been in quite the slump about Inked recently. Before, I had an extra chapter already worked out (like, I’d be publishing chapter 15 and chapter 16 was ready) but now I have caught up which means that unless this damn writer’s block lifts I might be late again. Hopefully not missing whole months. I don’t know what to do with that muse. Help! That said, sorry for the rant and I hope you enjoy this.

 

John can’t figure out his flatmate/friend/colleague/favourite topic/ as you see, he can’t even figure out how to call him, so his Sherlock will have to do (except he’s not _his Sherlock,_ not really). And that is nothing new, barely worth a mention, because whether it is the latest experiment entailing poisons _which really should be labelled as long as they have to stay in the kitchen in now empty coffee packages_ or the reason women’s fashion magazines tips somehow are worth brain space while the bloody solar system isn’t, the sleuth’s behaviour is a constant source of wondering for him.

But trying to figure Sherlock out is half the entertainment he gets from living with him (not that the doctor believes he’ll ever be able to pick apart the workings of his friend’s magnificent brain). So John is certainly not going to complain or demand a reasonable explanation for every little quirk he has to face in his daily life.

Lately, though, things feel…uneasy. Sherlock seems all the time on the brink between an epic sulk (which John would know how to deal with, if only the silly boy gave into that) and an odd urge to…be helpful. Which would usually set off all kind of alarms blaring inside John’s head, because Sherlock is not helpful. Ever. Not unless he’s planning something awful, or he has to apologise for something awful, and neither are prospects the doctor relishes. And, of course, neither would last as long as this particular bout of weird behaviour has.

Of course, if Sherlock was a normal human being, John would chalk the increased niceness to his wound (and maybe a tiny bit of guilt, because John has been wounded while protecting Sherlock – which he did on instinct and would do a thousand times again). But his flatmate is everything but normal, so that can’t be the right explanation, can it?   

Anyway, John can’t shake the feeling that there’s something wrong with his flatmate – and that it is, in some way or other, his fault. If he apologised, maybe that would help? Only he has no idea what he would be apologising for, so probably his friend would only call him an idiot and refuse to explain what has got him in such an odd mood.

The doctor doesn’t even consider downright asking – the detective will spout whatever he feels like sharing (whether or not John is present to hear him) and trying to pry about what he would rather keep to himself is a perfectly useless endeavour. The blogger has tried sometimes to glean information out of his favourite sleuth (“You read all my past at a glance and I do not know anything about you beside whatever I can infer from Greg’s hints! That’s unfair!”) but Sherlock has never shared a single word. John still doesn’t know how he started working for Greg, where or even if his friend graduated, if he had better friends than that asshole Wilkes and where are they now.    

So he has to deduce things for himself (yeah right, as if he could get into Sherlock’s brain without help), try to soothe him without having any idea how or…maybe he can ask Mycroft? If he does involve the older Holmes, though, the detective is sure to be even more pissed off at John that he possibly is already.  It’s a situation with no apparent way out.

Until John gets tired of it (because of course his patience has bounds, no matter what some people at Scotland Yard seems to think) and he decides to face the issue. He’s invaded Afghanistan. He can get to the bottom of his flatmate’s seriously too drawn-out mood swings.

“What did I do, Sherlock?” he queries abruptly one morning, at the breakfast table (Sherlock says he’s having only coffee, but John is spreading honey on a toast anyway, pretty certain the sleuth will nibble it absentmindedly).

“What? You’ve done nothing…at least that I know,” the detective replies, looking taken aback. “Why? Did you do something, John?”

“I honestly don’t know. But I must have. Or someone must have. You’ve been in a weird mood for more than a week. Since I’ve been shot, actually,” the doctor remarks, determinate not to let Sherlock dance around this subject.  

“You’re imagining things,” the detective replies, too quickly to be entirely honest.

“I’m not. Look, I might be an unobservant fool most of the time – I admit it. But I observe _you_. As a blogger, I have to, don’t I? You might think you’re this…this cool, enigmatic creature, and I’m not saying you’re not – some of the time. But we’ve lived together for months, and I know when there’s something wrong with you. And now there definitely is. I thought you’d snap out of it by yourself, and tried to give you time, but it’s not working. So will you just tell me what’s got you like this? I want to help,” John queries sternly.

For a moment, his friend looks almost…scared. That’s bad – very bad. There are not many things that can unsettle Sherlock Holmes. Irritate? Sure. Frustrate? Yes. Scare? No. The detective’s eyes shift around, before he visibly takes a decision, moves his ethereal pupils back to John’s face and admits, “Fine, maybe there’s something.”   

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” the doctor remarks, with a smug smile. “What?”

“You got shot,” the sleuth states simply, voice oddly remote.

“Yeah, well, it happens. We’re facing criminals almost every day. Better me than you,” John retorts, not teasing his friend about stating the obvious even if he really deserves it.

Sherlock actually glares at him – hard. “Certainly not, John. The last time you got shot, you entirely changed your career.”

John laughs at that. Actually, uncontrollably laughs. The detective’s glare intensifies, if at all possible.

When he regains his breath, John queries, “And you – what? Were worried that I wouldn’t come along on cases anymore? Or maybe that I’d leave Baker Street outright? Was all that creepy…behaving a way to persuade me to stay?”

“My behaviour wasn’t creepy!” the detective protests loudly.

“Believe me, you trying to act all normal and helpful is very creepy.  The explanation for that is never a good one,” the blogger states, shaking his head.

“That’s not fair,” the sleuth mumbles. “Everyone complains when I am a freak and then when I try for normal it’s still not good enough.” He stomps to the sofa and plops down, sulking.

“Sherlock, I don’t,” John replies earnestly, following him and touching lightly one shoulder, wanting his friend to face him. “I’ve never even thought you are…that thing, and yes, I may complain about some things, but we reach a compromise about them, right? I mean, is labelling things really that big a sacrifice? Believe me, I don’t want you to become normal. I…” A small pause while he bites back the first word automatically on his lips, which would have been ‘love’. “…like you. Quirks and all. I’d be terribly bored if you hadn’t involved me in your life.”

The detective turns to look at him, but he looks decidedly unconvinced. “You don’t think I’m a freak,” he echoes hollowly.

“Christ, Sherlock, no! Where did you get that foolish idea? And for the other thing we discussed – I’m certainly not going to give up this life. The last time I was shot – well, medicine in a warzone isn’t all that easy, and there were complications…also, not to boast, but I was their best doctor, and I couldn’t exactly patch myself up. But now I’ll be right as rain soon, and following you around before you want it,” John replies, hoping to get a smile out of his morose flatmate. 

“Oh John, it’s not I who don’t want it,” the sleuth replies automatically, before firmly shutting his mouth.

“Well then it’s established. You want me around. I want to stay here and come on cases. We can get back to normal,” the doctor says, grinning.

“Normal…yes,” the detective repeats, though the word clearly leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

“Come on, don’t grimace now. I meant our normal –or usual, if you prefer. Complete with smelly experiments and you torturing your violin and _me_ making _you_ tea. I’m sure I can manage that still – I’m not an invalid, you know. Do you want to pop round to Molly and see if she has anything for you?” the blogger queries, not quite knowing how to deal with this partially new Sherlock but knowing that a few new organs to play with will cheer him up – unless it is a really dire situation. 

“Do you want me out of your hair?” Sherlock spits, but he’s already moving to get on his coat.

John rolls his eyes, because really what else is he supposed to do at that?

“Don’t worry John, until you’re fine enough to storm away yourself you don’t have to use these kind of excuses. You can just tell me to shoo when you need some air,” the sleuths bits back, on his way out.

So quickly that he probably doesn’t catch his blogger protesting, “That’s not it _at all_!” Christ, he just wanted to cheer his friend a bit and he’s messed up entirely. How can he help him? Convince him that John adores his pouty, quirky self and wants nothing better than continue being his…well, his everything Sherlock will let him be, friend, colleague, flatmate, or…nothing, John, stop right here.

I mean, if his blog hasn’t clued him in about how much he adores being by Sherlock’s side…John can barely get much more blatant than this, can he? (Not without doing something he really really shouldn’t to his married-to-my-work friend).

As for the drafts – they are drafts for a reason. As well as the orphaned works on AO3. Claiming them would do nothing but make things awkward. No, not because they’re horribly kinky as most orphaned works. If anything, they’re cavity-worth fluff. (Until they’re not). But because all his confused, wrong feelings insisted to go somewhere, and Ella claimed him writing things down would have good effects, so it seemed safe to get some things out and leave them lost in the midst of a sea of similar content. So no, even to prove he adores being with his…flatmate, he can’t certainly show Sherlock his fanfictions. Besides, the detective would probably start nitpicking about grammar and plausibility of plot and God knows what else.

But if not that, how is he supposed to prove to Sherlock that he loves…being with him? Wait, maybe he can whip up a new story while Sherlock is out. One he will be able to show without fear. Obviously, Sherlock will still criticise his grammar and word choice, but John can’t leave his appreciation unexpressed if the great idiot is worried that John might not want him around anymore. He might not be very good, but what needs must.

Maybe a 221B. He’ll have to explain the rules of the genre, of course, but at least the concision of it means his friend will not have much to pick at. Retirementlock, of course. He’s not actually sure who started the beekeeper!Sherlock fad, but if he’s not wrong that particular AU was born from toomanychoices, which he’s always assumed was Anthea because of the oddly exact characterization. He wouldn’t be surprised if Mycroft had her watch them, and it would explain what the girl is always typing. Of course, that would mean she started writing fanfictions before John made them public characters, but it’s pretty much impossible to know Sherlock and not be inspired by him. So, if beekeeping is Anthea’s idea, who’s to say she didn’t manage to glean some prompt from Mycroft himself?     

Anyway, John has decided for a 221B retirementlock beekeeping!AU (in which he has to persuade Sherlock not to recreate – or at least properly label – mad honey) and sets out to write it. He needs to be quick, to have it ready whenever his personal mad scientist will be home.

And if that doesn’t make Sherlock understand that John is resolved to stay with him until they’re both eighty and John’s leg is really ruined like Mrs Hudson’s hip he doesn’t know what will. He hears himself say that in his mind and realises he means it. He’s always imagined himself settled down with a nice girl, a couple of children and maybe a dog, or a cat, but he doesn’t need them. He doesn’t need to make his parents’ happy – they’re dead anyway – and as for him, John has never been more happy than he is following the detective on cases and taking care of him, big baby than his flatmate sometimes is. And Sherlock might not be his Sherlock, and this might be all an odd psychological reaction to the unusual name his soulmate shares, but as long as John is happy who cares about that? Not him. (And not the sleuth, because no matter how sharp he might be he’s not ever going to know John’s little dirty secret).

He starts picking at the keyboard, and checking word count every sentence. He’s gone mad, of course he is. He thinks fanfiction can help. That will bring to his friend’s attention the activities of their slightly obsessed fanbase (though not everyone is obsessed Moriarty-style at least) and what if after John’s little gift he gets into the sites and discovers Johnlock and…well, his works are orphaned. But what if Sherlock determines they are his by word use or something? No, no, he shouldn’t worry. Sherlock would never read fluff. He might leave scathing reviews to the casefics, but he won’t bother with his works.

And besides, John has taken a decision and he’s not the man to chicken out of things. How bad can things go? His friend doesn’t even imagine that there’s nothing in the world that might drive John away from 221B. He won’t read John’s misguided feelings. (How convenient for him that his feelings seem to be the almost infallible sleuth’s blind spot.)

He wonders if Mycroft is behind the UK pavilion at the Expo being in the shape of a hive. If it is a gentle tease to his brother. This assuming all his deductions are correct, of course, Mycroft really leaked info to Anthea about beelock and Sherlock really is/was interested in bees. He certainly loves honey – even rare types of honey he sometimes gets home with (the only kind of shopping John has seen the man do). Since the Expo is about food, maybe it was an attempt by Mycroft to persuade Sherlock to visit and hopefully be led to a healthier lifestyle regarding his eating habits.

And maybe, yes, this is all another fanfiction in his head and he should really heed Occam’s razor, but Mycroft has done stranger things in his effort to care for his little brother. Like kidnapping everyone the man comes in contact with, at least with any sort of regularity.  

When Sherlock finally comes back, hours later, with a package from Molly but without any of the enthusiasm that should usually warrant, John grins and presents him with his fanfiction, after a short explanation.

The detective reads it over his shoulder, and remarks bitterly, “As if that’s ever going to happen. You indulge in sheer fantasy now, John? That’s even worse than your blog. At least even through your maudlin rendition some actual facts managed to slip in there.”

“Who said this will not happen?” the doctor protests vehemently. “Of course, if you don’t want to keep hives you don’t have to, but the rest – well, why not?”

“The problem is not the hives, John. I’m not ever going to get to live till retirement, so that’s a moot point,” the sleuth huffs, walking up and down the room nervously, looking everywhere but at John.

“Oh no mister, you’re going to. Live till retirement, I mean. I’m by your side and I have no intention to let you kill yourself to prove you’re clever. I thought that was already established a long time ago,” John objects. Loudly. Wagging his finger at his idiotic genius in a negative motion to enforce the point.

Sherlock can’t help it. He replies, “But you won’t stay. Not until retirement, and not for much longer, either. So who can say what happens afterwards?” He’s bitter, yes. But that story – that little snippet John presented so proudly, of them being together so long after…why would he do that? Tease him like that? John never used to be cruel. Or maybe Sherlock just hadn’t realised it still. It is a little scene of heaven, the one John has written for some reason. Tantalizing. But it will never happen. His soulmate doesn’t want him. His soulmate doesn’t wish for anything else than find a different someone to spend his life with. Cruel, John.

“Well, how can you be so sure I won’t stay? Where should I go?” the blogger asks, raising an incredulous eyebrow.

“Oh, I don’t know. Sarah might have dumped you, but I don’t doubt that you’ll find a replacement for her soon enough. One girl or another will ultimately end snatching you away. I bet it won’t take much time, too,” the detective utters, a hand almost waving his friend (soulmate) away to the arms of any willing woman in Great Britain.

He’s torn, in fact. One part of him wants John to go away _right now_ , leave the flat forever and not dare cross its threshold anymore. The man can go fuck anyone he finds acceptable – anyone that’s _not him_ – and enjoy the lack of human body parts in the fridge and the lack of unlabelled chemicals and the general lack of Sherlock. At least that would put an end to the continuous stress of ‘Is it today the day John will finally have it enough and reject any contact with his evidently wrongly-assigned soulmate? (Didn’t know that was a thing that could happen.) Or tomorrow? Or the day after?’

Another part of him wants to tie John up and keep him on a leash so he can’t ever, ever leave, and scream at him for being too stupid to accept his own bloody soulmate when he finds it, and generally being so very Not-Good (Sherlock doesn’t need his own human moral compass to spell it out for him this time). Not to mention if he tried to he’d probably end the one restrained, because while he can certainly hold his own in a fight his unwilling soulmate has had army training as well as medical knowledge, which means he knows best how to hurt and subdue people.

And of course, there’s Teen!Sherlock. You’d think the silly thing would have shut up after realising his long-awaited soulmate despised him, but he’s more stubborn than that. “He’s _mine_ ,” he insists. “He just needs to see we can be worth of him.” Which is a hard task, because how can he become worthy of such an awesome human being as John Watson? He’s tried behaving – or behaving as much as he can manage – so that his soulmate will see that he can be better, that he’s trying to make an effort. The only thing that did apparently was alert him to the fact that things are wrong. Is it so unthinkable for Sherlock to want to be helpful?

As expected, to his last observation John doesn’t even try to object. “If I get a girlfriend it will not change things between us,” the doctor says, not even trying to mask his eagerness to find a different partner.

“No, it won’t,” the sleuth agrees. They’ll still be soulmates, and John will still not want him. Not like he’s supposed to. Teen!Sherlock is an idiot – Mycroft was right. There’s nothing he can do to make his (not his) John change opinion.

Sullen beyond what words can express (what’s even the point in trying?) the detective leaves without another word and seeks refuge in his own room. He doesn’t slam the door – why would he, John’s not in the wrong. He’s being sensible, if anything. Who in their right mind would want to get saddled with one former junkie (once an addict, always an addict) without an ounce of manners and the habit to get you in life-threatening situations (never mind that John _thrives_ in these)?

“Sherlock – Sherlock?” the doctor calls after him, clearly uncomprehending the sudden departure from one ongoing conversation. But what’s there to drag chatting about? John doesn’t want him, he might toy with the idea of being in his life still when they’re old and rheumatics, but he’ll want the whole nine yards at the same time – a ( _nice_ , _female_ ) wife, a few kids, maybe a dog. Can he still keep his rejected soulmate in his life in some sort of capacity at the same time? Certainly the future Mrs. Watson would feel threatened by him, wouldn’t she? And there’s no doubt as to whom John would pick if forced to choose. Hint: it’s not the one clichés-filled romance books would have you believe. (Not that he ever read these, but – okay, he might have, but _only_ because they were among Mummy’s things and sometimes he got…nostalgic about her. And that’s bad enough to admit, even if only to himself.)

The sleuth refuses to answer. Let John make of this sudden mood shift (as if it isn’t all too evident the reason for it) whatever he wants. He will get tired soon anyway, and leave his flatmate (that he can claim at least; that has – _not yet_ , a great part of him points out – been forsworn) to his own devices.

True to form, after a few more calls, John’s voice peters out, and he can hear the man’s steps when he gets away from the door. He has called, but not knocked, even when he’s come to his door, and Sherlock is not sure if this means anything at all, but if it does, he’s sure it doesn’t mean anything good for their relationship – or, lack of one. 

He should not even care about this, should he? He’s done so well without John before, after all. Ah! He might be good at deceiving people, but even at his own ears that last sentence sounds ludicrous. He’s done so well – survived three overdoses (thanks to Meddling Mycroft) – created a job (where everyone but Lestrade hates him, and the DI…well, if he forgives his wife’s betrayals having a huge asshole as a consultant is piece of cake) – got a landlady who likes him (because he kept her out of her murderous, abusive husband’s drug cartel’s wipe out at the hands of USA police). Who’s he fooling, he might have created himself a nice little niche without John, but he’s always been _empty_. That’s what the drugs were supposed to help with. That – worse than loneliness, worse than anything there are words for – hateful byproduct of having _emotions_ in the first place.

And now…no, he won’t think about now. And he most certainly isn’t going to cry. He isn’t going to cry. He. Isn’t. Going. To. Cry. Not over John. Not over anything. He’s not cried since…oh God, he doesn’t even remember. Decades – unless he had a teary trip, but these don’t count, do they? He keeps telling himself that, but it works just as well as his not-self-deluding lies. As in, not at all. It’s all John’s fault – for teasing him with that little drabble of heaven and then admitting he wants another partner (any other partner) anyway. Yeah. It’s John’s fault that he’s huddled under the covers, fully dressed, and tearing up without respite. At least he’s not sobbing loudly, or anything else that his flat(soul)mate would notice. What he does in the sanctity of his own room is nobody’s business.

He hates himself – and the worst thing is, he wants to hate John, but he can’t seem to manage to. Is that a soulmate thing? After all, John – despite clearly hating his having Sherlock as a soulmate – does not loathe him entirely. He still lives with him. Still endures the experiments, and protects him on cases. Still asks what’s wrong with him (why would he _care_?).

So maybe the sleuth is biologically wired not to hate his destined partner, despite how much the man hurts him – despite his being used to despise and humiliate people back once he encounters their rejection.

It is scary. Has anyone made a study of the spousal abuse cases between soulmates? Or are soulmates automatically discounted as suspects in such charges, and so the abused soulmates do not even try to report such things, because if a soulmate is supposed to be perfect for you and he hurts you, it means you deserve to be hurt? (Isn’t this what Sherlock’s been doing, too? Convincing himself that John is right in his own rejection of him?)                              

He’ll need to look into Lestrade’s cold cases with this new perspective he’s suddenly gained. Hey, at least it worked – now he’s stopped crying, since there are cases to be worked on. Has he been as blind as everyone else, he wonders. Automatically thought that the ones lucky enough to have found their soulmates couldn’t possibly be hurt by their other halves, blinded by romantic clichés he should have  known better than to believe untested? He doesn’t think he has – but the niggling doubt won’t stop.

Well, that is one positive thing born from John’s rejection (he’ll have to thank him if he finds more cases like these – though, obviously, he won’t go into detail, just mention the other man’s light-conducting powers.)

He slips into the bathroom to wash his face and hide the evidence of his crying. Sherlock has never been more happy that his bedroom has a private door connecting it to their common bathroom – he can’t imagine facing John with a tear-streaked face. That’d be beyond humiliating. (So fine, maybe he’s lying. Maybe he was much happier for the non-entirely-opaque partly-glass door connecting the two rooms whenever John took a shower. But he always felt guilty for that. Even without John telling him, he knew it was ‘a bit not good’. But was it? Fantasizing about one’s soulmate is allowed, isn’t it? It all comes back to John not wanting him, though.)

Anyway, once he’s back to being presentable – back to the mask he has to offer to the world – he braves the flat (and John). His flat(soul)mate is in the kitchen, to the sleuth’s relief – no doubt puttering with tea, given the hour (which _he hasn’t offered to share)_ – so he can just call, “Going to the Yard!” and – hopefully – not face him.

Of course that was too much to hope for. John comes to the door between kitchen and sitting room, asking, “Is there a new case?” with an eagerness which is rather puppy-like and endearing (and the consulting detective hates himself for thinking so).

He hates disappointing him (and he hates him – no, he doesn’t – oh, it’s all so damned confusing!), but he replies quickly, “Sadly not. Going to pester him for cold ones, at least. I need something!” He’s not sharing his new standpoint on possible soulmate abuse, of course not. That would require explanations – while it’s clear that if he wants to keep John as a flatmate, at least, the unmentionable secret they share needs to remain…unmentioned. That’s the point. Or John would have tackled the matter himself, wouldn’t he?

True, there is that night at Angelo’s… but he didn’t ever say “I am your soulmate,” or even, “I think I might be.” He backpedalled as soon as Sherlock panicked…and started to lie about his dead soulmate since that very night.    

But he needs to stop thinking about John, or he’ll start crying again on the way to Scotland Yard, and that would be possibly worse than John knowing he’s been crying. After all, the Work is decidedly all Sherlock can ever have, and if he botches even _that_ up…he might as well be dead.

At Scotland Yard are used to having him around, but Sherlock coming and – without even exchanging a banter (or an insult, depends on the point of view) – with anyone, striding towards the cold cases archive still warrants some odd looks – and ultimately, Lestrade’s intervention.

“Sherlock?” the DI queries, coming down to the archive in much the same state of disarray of 221B’s sitting room in one of their wildest moments, much to the helpless horror of the employee there who has not dared to intervene (from his face, he’s had the lashing out of his life). “You do not actually work here, remember? You can’t just do as you please. If you want _one_ cold case, you have to ask me and I’ll bring you the file,” Lestrade states in his sterner tone, stressing ‘one’.

“Busy,” the sleuth grumbles, flicking through a file and not raising his eyes.

The inspector does not answer to that – he just starts taking away the many files that are spread all over the floor and bringing them to the grateful-looking archivist that will return them to the correct place.

That makes the consulting detective jump up from his place stretched out on the floor, protesting loudly, “Hey! I was using that!”

“No you weren’t,” the DI declares. “You were just making a mess. If you tell me what you need, I might help.”

Sherlock scoffs, packing as much disdain in a single wordless sound as he can. At least, antagonising police is an old, dear habit – and a bit of a mess won’t make Lestrade deny him cases. They _need_ him. Perhaps no one else in the universe does, but here he can be useful.

The inspector is not impressed, and the consulting detective decides to elaborate. “I’m looking for a pattern. I’ve got an intuition. Spousal abuse – between soulmates.”

The archive employee actually laughs – loudly, almost wetting himself. The DI, instead, groans. “Sherlock, I’m afraid that you have a weird concept of what a soulmate is. They’re not supposed to hurt you.”

“And what if they do?” the sleuth challenges, dreading the answer.

“Then they’re homonyms. Come on, someone certainly taught you that,” Lestrade explains, kindly now. He’s always been a bit of a parent when his consultant has needed it, and now is no different.

“But what if you’re sure they’re your soulmate?” the detective insists, mumbling. Because if his discovery has been wrong – if there is no soulmate abuse, ever, there _can’t be_ …then John’s refusal, and the hurt it causes, are unexplainable. Or…or he really deserves it. Worse, needs it. Is he an unsuspecting masochist? But he can find no joy in the agony. It’s all so confusing.

“Are you talking about a specific case?” the DI queries, looking puzzled at him. The man has more talent as a detective than Sherlock would like him to – that’s why working with him is less unbearable than with any other inspector. Now, though, it makes for an uncomfortable conversation.

“NO,” the sleuth answers, too quick and too loud to his own ears, “no, it was just…an idea. A theoretical hypothesis.”

“The freak can’t even conceive of people being happy in love, uh? It’s no wonder,” the archivist butts in, no wonder in revenge for the dressing down he got before Lestrade arrived, and the DI glares at him before he can go any further. People at Scotland Yard will chat like in any other workplace, but maybe he should have a talk with Sally – though, now that the damage is done, it’s a bit late.

“It’s a far greater wonder you can, what with your three divorces, and growing up in an orphanage,” the sleuth sneers – and if he still had this much ammunition in reserve maybe the inspector should look into him and see what’s wrong with the man.

Before the squabble can further deteriorate, Lestrade raises a hand, commanding silence – and he obtains it. Then, as if nothing happened since the consulting detective (not entirely convincing, but Sherlock does know he can come to him for help, right?)’s hypothesis, the DI replies, “As far as your hypothesis goes – I’d tell – hypothetically – that you need to recheck your data. There must be a misunderstanding somewhere.”

The detective harrumphs and makes to leave. There is no misunderstanding possible – the data are patent. John wears his name on his wrist – soulmate status checked. Really, how many Sherlock can live in this world? John lied, saying he had lost his soulmate, and dated a string of women – soulmate status refused, check. His soulmate’s actions cause Sherlock a great deal of emotional distress – sadly, triple check. If a soulmate can hurt his intended (by whom? That’s ridiculous) so much, why would he not be able to commit further abuse? It does not make sense.

Only…Sherlock has been hurt only when he’s discovered his rejected soulmate status. And he has gained that knowledge only because he ‘sneaked a peek’. Because he intruded. John has clearly never meant to let him know the truth. The doctor has lied, protected his secret with a number or watches, wristbands and bracelets, but he’s been very very careful not to let the truth slip. He might not want the consulting detective as his soulmate, but he’s all the same being careful to shield him from the agony such knowledge would inflict. He’s not a borderline-abusive soulmate; he’s a proper soulmate who does not want to hurt him on purpose, and if the sleuth has no sense of boundaries and gets hurt in the process that’s all up to him being not good, isn’t it? He’s made his own bed, he’ll have to lie in it. He can’t blame John for this, even if he’d want to.  

So now he can only get home and face John and carefully not let it be known that he’s aware. The doctor will be angry about the breach of privacy and he’s disgusted with their relationship already. Maybe that will make him move out, despite the absurd things he writes – but that’s fiction, and the sleuth knows all too well that you can’t trust fiction. Not even John’s.

God, he wants a cigarette. Or maybe even something stronger. But if John realizes he’ll frown and be disappointed and the feelings Sherlock has (even when he doesn’t want to, he wants to reject them just like his soulmate has rejected him) are already forming a ball of self-loathing churning in his gut at the prospect.

So no, he won’t use anything – but honestly, he’s not sure how he’ll be able to face John and his kind, polite mask without any chemicals in his veins and without screaming either. But he can’t scream. It’ll only precipitate the end. And he doesn’t want this to end. Whatever John and he have – little as it is – is all the same more than the sleuth had ever hoped to have, so he’s going to pretend everything is just peachy. Perfect. Or, like John would say, “It’s all fine.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: nothing mine. Also, I don’t repeat it every time, but God bless Ariane DeVere. Many, many times over. A. N. I know, I know, this is two weeks late – but I had so many days when I coulsn’t push myself to write this at all. I am so sorry. And it means you can expect next chapter around the end of next month, too, unless I fall in some unexpected writing frenzy (but don’t count on it).

 

John doesn’t know what’s got into Sherlock, but he would very much like to know. He thought he’d figured it out. He thought that he’d solved the issue with that bit of creative writing. He’s in for the long haul. But now, it seems that his flatmate is the one who doesn’t want him to.

Of course, the sleuth has always been a bit of an ass. No wait, don’t think of ass in connection to him, not when you have a mind-reading flatmate – he’s a dick, not that either…oh fuck, are all swearwords sex-related? He doesn’t even like Sherlock like that (of course he does, but if his friend picks up on that he’ll be even more insufferable). Oh, there it is. Insufferable works.

What he was trying to say – well, think – before he got sidetracked by linguistic considerations was that, while ordinarily insufferable, the consulting detective has worsened lately. Gone the frankly unsettling ‘helpfulness’, he’s more impatient and arrogant than ever.

And work-addicted. It’s case after case after case, so much so that they have barely any interaction outside of them. Sherlock is out following a lead, or they’re both working on it, but John knows his role then – keep his gun handy and murmur, “Amazing” at appropriate intervals.

But the more domestic side of things…that is gone. Of course, John still buys the milk and most often than not does the dishes and whatever other errand or chore is needed. But Sherlock will rarely hover in companionable silence like he used to, pretending to look into an empty slide (John noticed, of course he noticed – he wasn’t blind).

The detective will use the flimsiest excuses to avoid sharing a meal with him, while before it seemed he’d only eat in his company and at his urging… And most often than not pick from his plate like the most annoying girlfriends, not that he was one or that John – strangely – minded it much when it came from his favourite madman. John is reduced to keep track of food – mostly his leftovers, unsurprisingly, he doesn’t expect Sherlock to start cooking for himself – disappearing from the fridge to assure himself that yes, his flatmate is not starving, and that only out of his doctorly concerns. Or so he tells himself.

Sherlock, involved in a case or not, would spend insane amounts of time in his mind palace. Yeah, right, the rest of the world is boring and dull and whatever else you want, when one is a genius. John can accept that. He still misses cuddling with his friend on the sofa and hear him yell at trash tv shows. The best was when Sherlock got the solution wrong on crime dramas because he deduced the _actors_ , not the – admittedly clichés – plotlines. Sure, he’d sulk after that, but John knows how to bring him out of that. This new coldness, instead, he doesn’t know how to deal with. Especially because, no matter how aloof the sleuth got, he’d always – _always_ – involve him in the (many) cases.  

Still, it is true that the world’s only consulting detective has become more testy than ever. He wants cases – constantly. But he does not want just any case. Often, he’d only ear a few words before dismissing prospective clients – usually angering them. Not that John doesn’t understand them. If he’d been worried over some issue, and been summarily shooed like a fly and pronounced boring, he’d be glaring daggers too.

Honestly, John thought they’d take the case about the nutter claiming his aunt’s ashes had been replaced. It was most probably a nutcase, yeah, but he thought that hearing someone claim to know ash (even human ash) would set off Sherlock’s competitive streak and at least make him carry out some analysis to prove the man wrong – or not. Instead, even that isn’t enough of a challenge for the detective to be interested.

The doctor has to give it to his friend, though. When his majesty picks a case, they have fun. Like schoolboys. Even if (even more so, actually) no real crime has been committed. Only Sherlock could attract a case that requires them to dress up as ninjas. He can’t stop smiling thinking about that. Why, he even got an offer to have his blog turned into a comic – nay, graphic novel, Chris would have a fit if he knew John used the word – which he refused because…well, could you imagine? Sherlock chasing criminals, maybe with his Belstaff turned into a cape? God. He is spiteful enough about the blog. (Less fun was had by John in the case of the melting laptop, but only because Sherlock bloody Holmes had melted his laptop – in the kitchen – to prove the likelihood of his solution. At least he replaced it without being prompted.)

It seems they can’t deal with that level of distance, Sherlock (despite initiating it) no more than him, because as suddenly as it started it was gone, and John is left puzzling over what he’d done to deserve it and – above all – how he’d managed to placate his flatmate. Finding nothing, he decides that it is most probably all in Sherlock’s head. Maybe he has answered him rudely in his mindpalace, who knows. Since apparently his flatmate keeps having conversation with him in his absence, anything can happen. Probably the sleuth has just deigned to check his working schedule and realised that John was giving flu jabs at the same time Sherlock has been so unforgivably insulted by his mental alter ego.

By now, though, he’s pissed at having to deal with a moody child, and he retaliates in a not-very-adult way, himself. That is, sneering right back when his flatmate – as always – criticizes his blog posts. After all, no matter how ‘romantic’ he needlessly makes things, or how silly his puns are, at least someone reads it. More than someone, at that. While the only ones that have read the Science of Deduction, with all probability, are John (well, he skimmed through it while investigating his flatmate to be), a murderous cabbie because his sponsor told him to, and Jim Moriarty himself, at least during the game. And if Sherlock pouts at being reminded of this in not-so-many words, he should have thought of it before irritating John Watson. (Still, a part of John scolds him for hurting his friend. But he’s too stubborn to heed it. The sleuth has been difficult too long, and he deserves it.)

A part of John, too, is shamefully gleeful when mentioning the case of the dead flight not-passenger, which the world’s only consulting detective has not (yet, as the great git insists) been able to solve. And how his flatmate gets pissed (again) when John exposes him. But he’s made Sherlock into his genius madman and he’s allowed to share what he wants on _his_ blog. You know, the one people actually read.

1895 readers in less than eight hours…he’d never thought he’d come to eight readers a day. This is all thanks to the charm Sherlock exerts – on him and, through his painstakingly chosen words, on his fans. But it doesn’t mean that he can’t point out every now and then that his friend is not an infallible superhero (especially after the ninja-dressed case, that might need reminding). And it’s true that his readers want the human side of the genius detective. Dame Agatha recounted a failed case of Poirot (though the man manages to be unsufferably smug about it too) and if literary detectives can accept their own failures, Sherlock should learn to, shouldn’t he?

And it’s more than that. They’re starting to cross the border from internet-only phenomenon (which leaves John in awe already) and attract the interest of actual journalists. It’s flattering, of course it is, but scary at the same time. It’s a thing if the world’s only consulting detective pisses off co-workers or prospective clients. But if he attacks the press, they’ll both end up shredded.

John has seen it happening. He just wishes James – well, Major Sholto – had responded to his attempts to contact him. But if the Major was anything, he was proud, and he didn’t want to risk garnering an old friend’s pity. John finally got it after he was invalided home and felt the same. Pity that, from the little he knows, Sholto has found no Sherlock of his own. John honestly hopes he will soon.

But nevermind Sholto (which he won’t mention to the detective because, honestly, the sleuth would not take well to being lectured and whatever happened in Afghanistan does not concern him anyway). The point is, John has to train proper interaction with the media into the consulting detective. Sherlock grumbles, of course he does, because how will he be able to work undercover if he’s on all the gossip papers, but the best they can do is wait it out and let the journalists tire of them and latch onto a new scoop. Even Sherlock I-have-no-idea-of-pop-culture Holmes gets that causing a scene is the perfect way to attract even more attention, so he looks at John with that expectant, frustrated look, that clearly says, “You caused this mess and you have to solve it.”

Only John can’t solve it. The best they can hope is to ride it out. And the failed tentative at hiding his face in that silly theatre provides Sherlock with a ridiculous hat that somehow the papers consider like a stage costume. As if detectives had an iconic getup. Well, his friend is certainly pretty to look at, no matter what he wears (and isn’t that a dangerous thought), so the doctor can’t entirely blame the photographers that brandish their cameras, trying to catch him. Anyway, nothing in the internet lasts long, and however annoying this persecution might be it’s all free advertising. Adverts hopefully bring clients, which bring cases, which keep Sherlock from shooting the wall in boredom.

Still, when there’s that conference in Dublin – even if he doesn’t strictly need to attend – he breathes easier. Let’s put a bit of space between the irritable detective and himself. He’ll come back less incline to beating his flatmate into a pulp when he finds some experiment in the tub. (And it will give the mad scientist he lives with three days to unleash his worst projects without anyone to criticise him.) He says goodbye to his friend, with many recommendations to please restrain himself that could cause 221B to cave on itself or otherwise be unsuitable for human stay.

John thought he would not be made to pay for having a life outside his flatmate’s requirements. He should have known better. Because he already knows that Sherlock talks at him when he isn’t physically present, so of course after going away three whole days the doctor finds out that he has agreed to running a number of corvées for the detective. It’s a thing to follow him on cases, and a completely different one to trudge through a crime scene holding a computer because the case is not interesting enough for his highness to come take a look personally, but still not easy enough to solve over email.    

But it is a relief to escape the flat, which is the reason John agrees to have agreed. Sherlock has only two modes, John knows: model ready for a photo-shoot, bespoke clothes practically painted on him, or inside-out pyjamas and dressing gown, like a sick kid staying at home. But today – today his flatmate has evolved to sheet-only, because apparently even the dressing gown is too much of a bother. The sleuth wears the toga look like no one John has met in his wild days and odd toga parties at uni. He would make a rather splendid Roman patrician, which is the reason John needs to get away from him. Right now. Before his already confused soul – damn homonymy! – does something he would regret for the rest of his life.  

So, if it means he has to walk around in an empty field framing random patches of grass, he’ll take it. At a distance, he can breathe. He can pretend this is all normal, or whatever passes for their own brand of normal, which is insane anyway. He can even be stern with his…delectable (damn him!) flatmate and warn him to behave with the local inspector. (Though Sherlock is right, if their client had murdered someone without witnesses going to the police AND the consultant detective seems rather an excess of bother. Not even Moriarty did that, and he did pretty much everything an insane stalker with a penchant for showing off would do.)

John would get worried when the connection is suddenly cut off – the sleuth has a number of enemies, and _John’s not there to protect him_ – but the oncoming helicopter reassures him. That just screams Mycroft, and if Mycroft or his minions are anywhere in a ten feet radius from Sherlock too it is not a surprise that he needs all his attention to sulk and be properly snarky. The doctor is rather curious to know what couldn’t wait the end of the case to be announced.

Sherlock, in the meantime, doesn’t know what to do. He has tried anything – _anything_ – to make John like him, possibly accept him, and nothing works. He has tried being as unobtrusive as possible, barely being in his soulmate’s presence unless for a case (John likes his adrenaline, and it stands to reason that the detective is required to provide it). It just hurt, even worse than what he’s come to think of as his usual torment, and it only made John tetchy. He has tried letting his intended (by fate at least) turn him into the two-legged version of a performing seal, showing off for the press. What does he care about the press? Or about what anyone else but John thinks about him? And after indulging him so much, John _left for days_ for a stupid conference about something something.

Pretty much desperate, at this point, the sleuth has decided to let his soulmate know that yes, he might be married to his work, but John is welcome to help himself to the consulting detecting’s body if he wants. Maybe acceptance will come afterwards. It almost never happens, Sherlock knows that too well from his cases, sex does not entail any sort of sentiment or acceptance, but he’s willing to take even the momentary affection of an oxytocin natural high. Of course, he doesn’t say as much aloud. He’s desperate, yes, but not that desperate yet. And anyways, John is an expert at flirting and getting a leg over. Walking around in a sheet should be clue enough for the doctor to unwrap him. And yet, suddenly unsure of the wisdom of such a course of actions, the detective sends him away. No matter. The skype contact will be a continuous tease, and John can unwrap him when he comes home. Let’s hope that by then, Sherlock will have got over his sudden attack of cold feet.

And if that’s not annoying enough to live through, Mycroft can’t even put in the effort to come collect his brother himself if his presence is indeed required. He sends random minions, who presume to be entitled to decide his attire. He’s a grown man, and if a sheet is his outfit of choice, he very well will keep it. Anyway, Mycroft will have enough sense to collect John too to deal with him. It would be just what his brother deserves if John became suddenly affectionate where they’re brought (the chance is less than 0,00001%, but still).

He cannot stop the minion from rummaging into his wardrobe and bringing along a change of clothes for him, not without attacking him (and a sheet is not what you want to be in while fighting – too easy for your opponent to make you stumble and subdue you in a very humiliating way).

The nameless idiot even interrupts him during a case (never mind that it is a long-distance case, Sherlock is still working). He seems to believe that they have precedence over anything. Given that he’s sent on such errands, Fourth Small Dog (he has three, and given that he’s playing fetch for Mycroft the detective feels justified in his nickname for such small fry) should really not overestimate his own importance.

He’s finally brought to a random hall in Buckhingam Palace and left blissfully alone…until John arrives. John, who looks possibly more out of place here than a sleuth in a bedsheet, and apparently feels the urge to check about the presence of pants on the detective person (why would he have them?). The incredulous, very pointed stare Sherlock’s answer gains is enough to make teen!Sherlock hope. Maybe he _can_ seduce his soulmate, after all. That would be a start. He does not blush, and that’s a small victory. John’s interest in the matter is…flattering. Yeah, very flattering. And thank God that the thought of Mycroft – who’s certainly soon to arrive – is enough to stop him from reacting in any embarrassing way.

But truth is, even the consulting detective knows that here he looks rather more incongruous, ridiculous than the seductive creature he hoped to be at home. And when John looks at him, with a decidedly not libidinous look in his eyes, he can’t help it. They both burst into giggles like naughty children. His choice of attire might not have had his intended effect – not entirely – but even only hearing his soulmate’s laugh is enough to warm the detective’s heart in a way he has sorely missed since he discovered his true status. Maybe this could be enough – if he found a way to have it every day.

The giggles last through some not-really-jokes. Not really because if John wants an ashtray, despite his hatred of smoking, Sherlock will make sure to give him one. Anything to make his soulmate happy, so he will be more appreciated. And Mycroft _is_ a queen – both a drama queen (oh yes, he would say Sherlock is the one, but you should have seen him a few years ago) and a queen bee, letting everyone else do all the work while he only gets fed and fucks (or in his case, mostly mindfucks) people.

Of course, his brother – who finally deigned to show up – thinks he can start scolding (John too, and that’s unacceptable! Luckily his doctor is not easily cowed) and belittle his work and all the bubbly happiness disappears in a second, to be replaced with stubbornness that hides age-old hurt.

So maybe the case wasn’t that engaging, the sleuth himself hasn't found it worth visiting the crime scene, but it’s still his work. How would Mycroft feel if someone told him that the Koreans would sort themselves out, and that they do not need his supervision during elections, which is entirely useless meddling, only to keep himself busy?

Also, John seems to find his whole expedition superfluous, based on his brother’s words, and will probably protest the next time the detective will ask him to be his proxy at a crime scene. What is he supposed to do then? Send Mycroft? Ah! That would be a scene worth seeing, if his brother didn’t hate legwork so much.

Of course, his brother insists about his ‘unacceptable’ attire. As if Sherlock cared about making a good impression on him or whoever asked his help. He’s not awed or intimidated by being in Buckhingam Palace. After all, the royal family’s only merit is descending from their ancestors, which means that if anyone deserved Sherlock’s awe he or she is dead by some centuries at least. 

As if Mycroft wasn’t annoying enough, he brings in reinforcements. Not one of his minions, but a colour-coordinated (do they do that on purpose?), balding, annoying equerry which he is on first-name basis with. They see each other often, do they? Mycroft’s supposedly ‘minor’ position brings him all the time here to discuss…what? The best pastries for the Queen’s next reception? With an hussar, if so-called Harry’s tie is to be believed?

The two gits are so on the same wavelength that having double the annoyance almost makes Sherlock grit his teeth. Mycroft ‘apologising’ for his little brother, as if they were still children, and Mycroft should be able to control his troublesome little brother better.

The other man’s sarcastic, “Full time occupation, I imagine.” You’d think Sherlock is unable to do anything right. If he is, why have they summoned him, uh? They need him now. The least they can do is stop behaving as if they are making him a favour by accepting to deal with him. He had a job going before they so rudely interrupted. 

It doesn’t help ‘Harry’ curry favour with the consulting detective to praise his blogger’s work. After all, it’s not like the man knows that they’re soulmates, so that complimenting the one will naturally be thought as a mean to appeal to the other. And John really does not need any boasting about his blog. Sherlock will never hear the end of it, now that it is proven that the Queen herself like his soulmate’s romanticised accounts of their cases. Then again, she has no uses for ashes’ examination, the sleuth is ready to admit that. and the jibe at the difference with his media image does not help them to go along any (then again, anyone who is friendly with Mycroft is automatically the consulting detective’s enemy) – and if to repel that, he has to mock John a bit…well, it will bring his blogger down a peg. After refusing him, John deserves it.  

To add insult to injury, they want him to work blind, without knowing his client’s identity. Well, he’s not a minion. He wants to storm off in a huff, but figures that with with Mycroft everything has to become a literal power struggle. His brother thinks he can have him bend to his will? He’ll see – probably much more than everyone in the room wants to.

Until John says, “Boys, please. Not here.” And even if it is not harsh, or angry, or even truly commanding, Sherlock is reminded that the one time he is going to reveal his naked ass at John he wants to have the privacy to act on it, if he can somehow seduce his reluctant soulmate. Otherwise the man is going to be desensitized to his behind’s pulchritude, and that won’t do if he wants to somehow be accepted in his role.

And surprinsingly, even Mycroft does not…yeld to John, exactly, on the contrary (at least on the surface) he tries to throw his weight around, but he says enough to confirm what the place implies about the wannabe client. Which means that they have reached enough of a compromise for his brother to dress himself without feeling as if he has been defeated.

The jab at Mycroft (uncalled for, maybe, it wasn’t his elder brother’s fault that when their parents died he had to be mother, and father, and brother…even grandma sometimes, kid Sherlock used to snicker) makes him feel a bit better, at least.  

Mycroft and his…friend start – finally! – exposing the case, rather than playing around, and John has to put in his two cents. “You don’t trust your own Secret Service?” Because yes, Sherlock might be a great detective, but what do they pay all these minions for if they can’t even protect the royal family?

The elder Holmes points out how stupid it would be to trust people who spy for money, and John quietly preens. Yes, the soulmate Sherlock landed is better than any person his arrogant brother has at his beck and call (the sleuth doesn’t doubt that the MI5 employees would sell out their parents, children and soulmates, if asked to). John is pretty much perfect. Now if he could only accept Sherlock.

The case, actually, could shed some light on the consulting detective’s own private conundrum. It centres about a woman (or The Woman – how arrogant), which has apparently been involved in some recent scandals. Really, Mycroft should know that he has no brain space for idle gossip. But she’s specialised in sadomasochism and with Sherlock’s head full of hurting one’s (supposed to be at least) loved one – even if he’s tried to rationalise that John didn’t mean to – examining her (even if she deals in the lesser field of pleasure rather than love) might prove enlightening.

Of course, his brother has to take a jab at him after his earlier scene, insinuating that sex scares him and – at his denial – practically revealing his virginity to all and sundry (what business has ‘Harry’ knowing it?). But it’s true, Sherlock is not scared of sex. Just because he did not see the need to involve himself in something emotionally and physically so utterly _messy_ for a few instants of pleasure (because there was no way that someone who wasn’t his soulmate would stay on the long haul – hell, even his own soulmate doesn’t want to!) it does not mean that he ignores the theory or is ‘alarmed’ by the practice.

At first it seems something barely worth his time. Yes, the pain-pleasure clusterfuck might be interesting to explore, but he does not need his brother’s pushing. And straight (or not very much so) blackmail is easy to deal with. (Actually, the important – annoying – bit is John being so shocked by a gay kinky relationship that he gets stuck with his tea in his hand. Given he’s so very vehemently not gay that he refuses his own same-sex soulmate – though it’s probably not just that – it’s no surprise that he cannot conceive of seeking such pleasures.) But this is not blackmail, it’s someone trying a power play with the royal family AND Mycroft – and if only for that, he wants to see the woman.

Of course, he expects that it’ll take him a few hours to solve this (it’s not like Irene can distract him by seducing him, and he doubts she has any other talents). And Mycroft’s acquaintance dares to doubt him! _Why_ exactly have they called him in then? Obviously there’s only a way to deal with such a challenge. Deduce the man – or, in this case, deduce his employer. See ‘Harry’ squirming about having other royal little secrets uncovered is worth it. (And really if they didn’t want a nicotine addiction to be known they shouldn’t be this obvious.)              

Victorious, with John – as usual – making not-exactly excuses for him (his blogger sounds far too fond for his apologies to sound convincing), the consulting detective storms out. And, as from war law, to the victor go the spoils. One lighter from the annoying equerry…and, naturally, the ashtray John had coveted since setting foot here. Thank God that Lestrade is annoying often enough to keep Sherlock’s stealing skills always sharp.

John awaits to be in a cab to request his due – the explanation of the deduction (it’s clear that, shockingly, he still looks forward to these mini shows). The sleuth is only too happy to comply, with a gentle tease at his blogger’s unobservant nature, and he shows off his loot. His soulmate laughs, happy, incredulous and proud all in one, and the detective joins in. It might be a handful of precious seconds, but now he’s forgotten John’s refusal of him, he’s forgotten anything but how delighted the blond is, and how delighted  and warm-hearted this makes him in turn. Just a sliver, but he’s tasting a soulmate’s supposed-to-happen perfect happiness. And God, but he would steal much more than a measly ashtray if it got him John’s sweet laugh. He would do anything for John. His soulmate just needs to say the word.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing

 

 

Once back home, John decides to refresh his mind about the scandals the dominatrix has been involved in. He’s supposed to be the source Sherlock goes to for whatever he doesn’t care enough to spare brain space for, and a dominatrix will be offended if she realizes they entirely ignore her past exploits.

Also, it helpfully keeps him distracted from whatever his friend is doing in his bedroom. Beelining to one’s bedroom just before going to meet a sex worker is putting strange ideas in the doctor’s head, and the rustling of…clothes? Is Sherlock getting naked _again_? does not help John any to keep his mind out of the gutter.

In the end, he can’t help but glance at what is happening and – that’s good. He’s an idiot. The sleuth is simply trying to figure out which outfit he should use to face the woman. Honestly, John thinks there’s nothing wrong with the Belstaff-and-scarf usual look, but if the world’s only consulting detective thinks he would be better served by another appearance who is the doctor to object? He gets to see Sherlock parade in a number of attires to make a professional actor envious, and secretly takes a number of pictures with his phone which he will later put in a folder named the Fall collection (they are in September after all). He doesn’t give his input, of course. He’s not required to, and anyway Sherlock is too quick to change before John can get a word in. (And now try not to think about what good uses his friend’s lightning-quick undressing could be put to without the annoying redressing himself bit…)    

Exactly because his mind is wandering – again – he turns sharply back to the old article about Miss Adler (it wouldn’t do if Sherlock noticed it) and so misses what his friend actually picks.

“Aren’t you coming along, John?” the sleuth asks impatiently, and when his blogger turns he’s already in his Belstaff, the blue scarf wrapped against his throat.

The doctor dutifully follows, unsure if he’s disappointed that all the wardrobe fuss was for nothing or very, very pleased that the world’s only consulting detective image is the same as always. It’s…comforting, almost. John is very fond of that coat, he’ll admit, if only to himself. In the cab, he asks for instructions. His friend must have a plan, and if he’s not to botch it inadvertently, his blogger has to be aware of it.

As far as plans go, though, the detective seems to be rather optimistic. Ring her doorbell? And then want? Just going to ask, “Please miss, wouldn’t you mind handing over whatever compromising images you have?” are they? And the dominatrix will do so for his friend’s beautiful eyes, will she? Not that John wouldn’t do the same in her position, if asked, but he’s…confused. Yeah, confused by the goddamn homonymy. If his soulmate’s name had been something normal, like William, he would have built a tolerance to having friends bearing his intended’s name.

He decides to take a gentle tease at all the fuss his friend did earlier, to take his mind off soulmate-pondering (God knows how Sherlock I’m-a-high-functioning-sociopath would react if he knew how jumbled John’s feelings are). After all, the runway show ended up being for the doctor’s private enjoyment, with no detail changed from his consulting detective persona.

“For the details, I need your help,” the sleuth declares, ordering the cab to stop a little way from their destination. And then, with a perfectly straight face, asks to be punched. You’ll forgive John if he suspects his hearing just failed him. (They’re going to a dominatrix, for God’s sake. If Sherlock wants to be hit, why not make use of her professional talents?)

The sleuth seems very determined on having his way, though, and annoyed by John’s reluctance. Well, sorry if he doesn’t feel like attacking a friend in cold blood. If his flatmate had asked after his last experiment showed up in the tub, John would have been glad to oblige. The doctor tries to defuse the surreal situation with a quip about exactly how frustrating his flatmate manages to be.

Sherlock doesn’t laugh, though. He glares at him – and honestly, that’s entirely unwarranted. Then, apparently understanding his friend’s moral quandary, decides to help him get rid of any scruples. By _attacking first._ Completely unprovoked. The man is a bloody nutter. A nutter who doesn’t pull his punches, either.

Well, since he’s asking for it in every way someone can, the doctor decides to throw away Hippocrates for the moment. Do no harm…unless they’re practically begging for it. The first punch (with his right hand – _he’_ s pulling his punches, though not by much, and so he uses his not-dominant hand) lands exactly where the detective has asked. And Sherlock is happy with it – _thanks_ him politely, even.

But Sherlock has been driving him round the bend and back for ages, and clearly needs one lesson taught. Which is: don’t fuck with people trained to _kill you_. Especially after causing them to become the living embodiment of the word frustration – in more ways than one – for a long time.

The second punch catches the detective off guard – which shouldn’t have if he’d been paying the least attention to John’s still murderous expression – sending him crashing on the ground. The bloody idiot has behaved so long as if John was an annoyance, a puppet, a…he doesn’t even know what, every few days it’d be a new mood, but never one that actually made sense or considered John as an equal. Well, John’s going to show him that he’s right, they’re not equals. Because John can take him down _with just one hand_ – and not his dominant, either.

They continue struggling, until Sherlock concedes defeat – and the doctor takes his chances to remind him aloud too that he might be a healer, but he’s an army doctor, damnit, perfectly able to kill – and it’s in the sleuth’s best interest not to make the temptation to get rid of him overwhelming.               

Wheezing, Sherlock explains the rest of the plan once John finally lets him go. It’s rather easy. He can do his part, certainly. And God, but he loves seeing his friend act. He looks properly terrified, poor lamb. John has to remember not to laugh at the performance. Maybe some of the impromptu lesson helped him get into the proper mindset to play helpless victim?

And what a victim…it seems that underneath his signature coat, a tiny bit of costume has stuck. John just attacked viciously a poor vicar, if the dog collar is to be believed (and why they would call it a ‘dog’ collar? Someone had a rather odd idea of priests). He doesn’t laugh. He’s not supposed to laugh. His current role is ‘random passer-by with medical knowledge and a Good Samaritan complex the size of the London Eye’, according to Sherlock. It’s close enough to his true nature that he should have no trouble playing it. Of course, he has to pretend not to know Sherlock (and hope miss Adler is not a reader, especially not a reader since the time John’s blog sported both his own and his flatmate’s photos), but that’s not too hard. God knows that sometimes he thinks he doesn’t know the consulting detective at all, with how puzzling his behaviour is.

They are admitted, after his friend whimpers enough. To John’s displeasure, they have to part immediately. The woman who opened the door (not The Woman, given the photos they’ve seen) waves Sherlock somewhere while she ushers the doctor in the kitchen for the first aid kit. In any other situation, the blogger would try to flirt with the woman – she looks amazing, after all.

But given where they are, there’s every chance that she would accept…and then charge him three months of his salary. So, ignoring her mischievous smile – rather more of a smirk, to be honest – he busies himself with checking the first aid kit, to ensure nothing is lacking or expired.      

“So you saw that happen,” the…maid? colleague? of the Woman purrs, while he’s examining an antiseptic cream. “Did you intervene, too?”

“No, I…I saw that, and when I yelled they ran away,” he stammers, before deciding all this is unneeded anyway and asking simply for a bowl of a water and a clean napkin, which the woman provides, still smirking. John takes them and wanders in search of his patient. Oh fuck. Is it obvious how very involved he’s been? Is the sleuth’s plan already compromised? Never mind that. Pretend everything is going swimmingly.

He’s just behind the threshold of the door when he hears someone (the Woman, probably) offering to cut herself slapping his friend’s cheekbones. That might be possible, actually, but John would really rather not have any hurting he didn’t do himself. Never mind that it’s her trade. He interrupts them without knocking. It seems his intervention might be urgent.

More urgent – or more inopportune – than even he thought, because the bloody whore is naked (but for an ornate gold bracelet covering her name) and straddling Sherlock and what the fuck is happening here? Are they halfway through having sex already?

Given that the sleuth has lost only the dog collar until now, and the wild, anxious look that the consulting detective lays on him, the doctor suspects that his friend has not asked for any of this. Mycroft might have a point about his little brother being uncomfortable with sex, if the ‘God please help – bring some little measure of normalcy into this’ that the sleuth is telegraphing with his eyes is anything to go by.

Wanting to take Irene by the scruff of her neck and bodily remove her from Sherlock, but aware that this would give definitely the wrong impression (the role he’s playing is _not_ jealous boyfriend), he settles for staying still and glaring, until the Woman gracefully allows him to sit down.

When she points out that she’s clearly aware of the _poor vicar_ ’s true nature, not to mention his coming and goings, the blogger feels the need to point out that he was involved, too…in the investigation, of course. They are partners – a team. Something, at any rate. Miss Adler would do well not to forget it. John just implies it, but someone used to read people should not miss it unless she does so willingly. 

Irene keeps teasing the sleuth, and getting it wrong to booth.

Damaged? Maybe just a tiny bit, but as it is evident, disguise or not, John is there to make him better – or die trying. (It’s unfair enough how hurt his friend has been. He’s not going to let anyone else hurt him further. But having just punched him, he can’t really say as much.)

Delusional? Clearly not. If anything, the consulting detective is too sharp-eyed for his own good. He doesn’t make up hallucinations. (Not anymore at least. The previous drug use nothwistanding. Does this mean Irene has researched him? And stumbled on outdated info?)                     

And above all – himself as the higher power? Oh, come on. If anyone fits as Sherlock’s higher power, it’s his brother, the Queen. However angry the detective might be at him, power is the one attribute he will immediately recognise to his brother. Lots of power. Certainly more than him, from a certain point of view.

Annoyed with her, his friend unbuttons two fastenings on his shirt. Getting rid of the disguise, given how poorly she understands it, probably. John just hopes he won’t undress, because otherwise he’d start to feel really too much of a third wheel – or, alternatively, overdressed. (Of course a third wheel, come on, she’s gorgeous, even if he’s clutching at straws to find flaws on her.)

As if ‘deducing’ him, however wrongly, isn’t enough, the woman starts deducing John too – hopefully without knowing it. And God, maybe the blogger is just that transparent (he hopes not – the world’s bloody only consulting detective seems to have been blind to it till now at least) but she reads his love (his confusion, it’s just confusion, damnit!) in the restraint he used to punch him. And her getting such ideas into Sherlock’s pretty brain is NOT ON. How _dares_ she?

The doctor, lashing out without really lashing out (see? He can employ restraint even with people he very much does *not* love), points out her nakedness (‘You whore’ is just implied, but certainly thought…someone deduce that out loud please, so he won’t have to say it) and prompts her to cover herself. Some way. Any way, really.

She’s her hateful, mocking self. Yeah, John _is_ feeling exposed – his deepest, more carefully guarded secrets out in the air – and he’s never been more disappointed in himself for being unable to deduce himself, because God knows Irene needs to be taken down a peg or two…or maybe a whole ladder. 

Sherlock makes a jibe at his expense (as if he needs to be put down more) but obeys him, throwing his coat at her. And while John likes her covered, he’s seized by the urge to rip it off her. She’s contaminating it, and they’ll have to dry clean it. She’s leaving her skin cells all over it. Gross.

He makes a point to look no further than her eyes. Not because he’s not interested in gorgeous naked women. Because often eyes will telegraph an attack, and he trusts her only as far as he can throw her. Now, if only she gave him an excuse to do so…he’s not one to beat women usually, he swears. But Irene rubs him in all the wrong ways. She’s dangerous. Very dangerous. Used to play with people, to exploit their weaknesses. They can’t allow to show any.

And if the situation is not wacky enough, Sherlock implies he uses (might use, there was an if there, don’t get distracted, you’re on a case Captain, but God does the idea throw him for a loop) John’s computer to look up porn. Soulmateless married-to-his-job Sherlock Holmes looks up porn just like any other guy with a healthy sex drive. And John has never even thought to check his chronology after his borrowing… confiscating… whatever flatmate appropriated his pc. Sure enough, Sherlock would have wiped it clean, but what if he got distracted? That’s a thought for another time. Anyway, it seem the man (possibly) is not asexual, so unless Donovan was right and he considers looking up crime scene photos as checking porn (even less probable than him having a Fetlife profile), John has been missing something here.

Something, someone could point out, that is not his business anyway. But don’t friends share their love life, to a point? The sleuth has certainly been aware of all his girlfriends. Hell, he’s been the reason for most of his relationships’ failure. Now though John needs to forget his honestly inordinate interest in the world’s only consulting detective sex life and get back to business. He has a plan to see through, and disappointing his sleuth will not lead to sharing confidences.          

For his part, Sherlock wants this to be quick – in and out with the photos (and maybe quietly reserve a Johnless session to talk about pain and pleasure) – but the Woman is not what he expects. To begin with, she’s impossible to deduce. Thank God John is an open book as usual, or the sleuth would ask him to bring him to A&E for suspect cerebrovascular accident.

But no, she’s teasing and lording her superiority (which in some specific fields the detective supposes he can’t deny) over both of them and yet…flirting? Why would she? He has not paid her. He has not given her anything she wants. More so, he doesn’t have anything she might be interested in. So why is she flirting?

She cannot possibly like him. After all, his own destined soulmate rejects him as defective. Others have always realised how…lacking (‘freak’) he is practically at first glance. But not Irene. Why not Irene? He can’t read her, and that’s terrifying and leaves him lost. Adrift.

She makes a show of being interested in this morning’s case. Why? Is she involved? He doesn’t think so. The victim wasn’t wealthy enough to be able to afford her services. It is the second time in his life someone not professionally involved in solving cases has ever expressed an interest in Sherlock’s work (the first being John, of course), and it is baffling.

She called him (his brain, which is even better from his point of view) sexy. And he can’t say if she’s honest, or why would she lie? Distracting him, but distracting from what? What’s to happen?. Anyway, he owes John a deduction for this morning case, so he might as well give a show now, since the woman is (apparently) keen to know.

Now, if only he could remember the case in question and not be overwhelmed by the absurd chance of someone liking him, pursuing him (he’s not paid her – then again, she must certainly have some hidden goal) by their own will.

He doesn’t want her, even now. He just want to know how she can want *him* when he’s her enemy. When she (as he suspects, rather terrified) can read through him. He’s not the pretty-faced bastard who drops by every now and again and you use as fantasy fuel. He’s pretty sure that such is his role in Molly’s life, and as long as it gets him body parts and general prompt cooperation, he doesn’t care – as long as it all stays in her head. He’s the arrogant stranger who walks in pretending to strip you of your secrets (thank God that he has a way to find her much coveted phone without having to deduce his hideout) and ends up babbling like an idiot after a compliment.

Well, can you blame him? He’s now grown used to John’s praise, it warms his heart but it does not stop it anymore. If anything, now there’s the suspension of breath before he’s earned it, the ‘have I been brilliant enough?’ Somehow, he always does. (Brilliant. Amazing. Fantastic. Still not good enough as a soulmate, though. Obviously not. What had he ever thought?)

But other people…not-John people have only ever (unless paid not to, like Victor) spit their distaste at him. Stupid baby (Mycroft). Freak (so many ‘freak’). Psycho. He’s heard them all, and more. Until Irene inverted the trend, with her purred sexy and her coaxing, the “Don’t tease! I want to know,” attitude even faced with his rather confused exposition. Why has she not given him up like a bad job after his first hesitation? 

He forces himself to remember he’s not here for this. Not for the hiker’s case. He just needs her phone, and then he can go home and sort through his confusion in peace, or reserve a session…No, not a session obviously, but plan a further conversation where he can ask her what he needs. Maybe promise her that Mycroft will be willing to hire her in MI-something if she passes a game of Deduction. And the plan – not really news – hinges on John. His help. The doctor is always willing to lend a hand, even if sometimes (like not so long ago) he needs to be coaxed a bit. He appears to be chasing him away – to be able to show off/flirt in peace, maybe – but in truth he’s warning that it’s time to stop dilly-dallying. He does not need a chaperone. He needs the plan to go through.       

Irene notices it, of course – she’s good at reading people. She calls him out on being busy looking for the photos – but that shows she underestimates him (it’s always a good thing to have an adversary doing so). Sherlock won’t lose his time personally looking, trying to deduce possible hideouts or rooting among the sofa’s cushion like a dummy. She will tell him where they are, but he needs to keep her distracted – needs her not to watch her instinctive reaction.

His best bet (always his best bet) is to talk about the hiker’s case. She was interested, so he will spin a tale for her. True, he’s not John, but this tale is not about chases and adrenaline anyway. It’s about figuring things out – allowing her inside his mind palace and let her poke around, marvelling at how it works. He suspects it is dangerous, to give her that much freedom inside his mind, to fall into his mind palace in her presence (though he makes sure to keep talking aloud). But he’s always thrived on dangers, and – whether she honestly likes him (is it even possible?) or just wants more info on her opponent – the consulting detective doesn’t think she would physically attack him now. Sooner or later, John is going to be back, she knows that – and he would not like finding his friend hurt. If Irene is such a good judge of character, she certainly knows the former captain is not easy to take down.

He teases her like she did with him, even humiliates her back. If that’s at all possible. He’s not sure that she cares enough for that to work. When a sex worker welcomes you stark naked, she’s certainly not going to get her feelings wounded when you point out what she is. She’s full of herself enough to resent being called boring, though.

But she is. Even John would make a better guess – miss the truth by a mile, probably. But not state the obvious. His soulmate knows him enough not to irk him that way. (And he would certainly point out something that would point him in the right direction if he needed to. Honestly, this case is so _simple_ – you’d think someone with a few working brain cells would solve it on their own in five minutes.)

It seems that it does not take much to lead Irene on the right thought path. Thankfully? Or regrettably? He’s not entirely sure.

She should know enough about ‘distracting’ people before stealing their secrets to figure out that something must have happened in that empty field. But apparently the obvious consequences of everyday events are lost on her. She ostensibly misses (how _can_ she?) that a sudden, loud noise could be perfect to distract both the victim and the witness. At. The. Key. Moment Exactly like…oh, how about now?

Perfectly timed, John. (Not that he says it – gushing about the qualities of his reluctant soulmate would certainly not be appreciated.) Instead, he makes a stupid quip – but she ruined herself with her own inability to master instinctive reactions. Shouldn’t someone like her be more in control of herself? Really. Shameful, miss Adler.

He doesn’t say that either, and starts working on the safe. Of course she would keep her mobile phone in a safe. There’s a treasure worth of information stored there – compromising photos, list of clients, and who knows what else (maybe notes about kinks?). Not that he would personally be interested in any of that, to each their own kink, he doesn’t even know who is the current monarch, imagine how much he cares about their family’s proclivities.

But he has to show off to Mycroft and his bloody hussar, he promised them things would be solved by night and they will be. He just has to figure out the combination of the safe, take the phone and flounce out, John on his wake extolling him as usual. (He has to prove himself worth enough to keep the praise going at least, or all too soon the doctor will refuse to share a flat with his disappointing soulmate too.)

Now, if only the fire alarm was a little less piercing…the wailing is ripping across his thoughts, making opening the strongbox rather more complicated than it should be. He yells at his accomplice to make the racket stop – it’s done its part, thank you – and while it takes a while for John to comply, he finally does. Now that he can hear his own thoughts, everything should progress smoothly toward the successful conclusion of this stupid case.                         

Combination, combination…one number is obvious (thank God for physiology) but the other five? He’ll be in trouble if Irene was clever enough to pick a truly random number, but barely anyone does. Random things are hard to remember. It must have some kind of significance for her, but he’ll be in trouble if she chose, say, her uni serial number. Not that he cannot find it out with a bit of hacking, but these things take time, and right now he really wants to get away. Any pain/pleasure discussion will be scheduled when their relationship – and, much more important, their balance of power – has been clearly determined…with him in the lead.

Until she sends his brain for a loop, saying she told him the combination. No she didn’t…did she? Some sort of code? What does she mean? Number of word in sentences, number of syllables…that’s too convoluted to keep track of while speaking, isn’t it? She must be lying. Above all, why on Earth would she expose her secrets like that? To see if he’s really brainy enough? Is it all a test by someone – Mycroft perhaps? If it is, he’ll kill his brother. Maybe that’s what she wants – make him doubt everything; distract him. To gain time for…what? 

Whatever she expected, Sherlock doesn’t think it’s that. Not many people count on their home being invaded by angry, trigger-eager strangers. (And John’s apologising. Why is he apologising? There are too many people for one person to be expected to deal with – if his soulmate had fought them he’d be dead. Nobody wants John dead – emphatically not Sherlock. Doesn’t John know?)

These CIA idiots think they can just come in and order people about. Well, know what, if they wanted to hire him they should have gone the proper way. They want him to open the safe? He wanted to do so, thank you very much, but they interrupted before he could figure things out. How is he supposed to deduce with the chaos in the room? Can’t they just ask Irene? She’s right here.

Oh, they don’t trust her. Well, that means they have half a brain cell among all of them. On another note, he’s going to murder the dominatrix. And take down John’s blog as soon as he arrives home. They’re both responsible for the plight he finds himself in now. Irene with her ‘told you’ quips when she didn’t. She did not, so why is she lying? Did she notice that someone was overhearing and wanted to put him in a tight spot? It can’t be. _He_ did not realise, after all. And John…John’s bloody blog which, apparently, even the CIA reads. The consulting detective’s reputation? Despite his having a website, barely anyone knew him but Lestrade before his soulmate started spouting drivel about their ‘adventures’. John has built his reputation, and look where it brought them.

He’s mostly annoyed, but it takes only a sentence to send him into a reeling panic instead. Shoot  doctor Watson? Why would the bloody CIA threaten that? They don’t know John is his soulmate, can’t know…but this all comes to mind way later, with the related puzzlement. At the moment, the only thought in his brain is one giant “No no no no no no no!” John can’t die. Not here. Not on a failed case, and certainly not because Sherlock failed to deduce. (That’s the only good point about him!)

Think. Think think think. Irene lied. What if she didn’t lie? Is the agent right insinuating the code is something they’ve all missed? Code words, number of sentences, number of syllables or words…this all gets analysed and discounted at the speed of light. So no, Irene didn’t tell him. But if she gave him the meaningful data, how? Something she did? Something?

It turns out that with the right incentive, Sherlock can deduce the dominatrix’s way of reasoning, and her arrogance. At least he hopes he has. He calls a stop just in time. Nobody is allowed to murder his John. (Later on, he will remember Moriarty’s game and wonder if it is helpful to work on a countdown – sadly, brainpower boosting is not worth the stakes these kind of games always imply.)     

Thank God that Irene does not stint security measures. The sleuth knew she wouldn’t. Not with her work, and the games she plays. A yelled warning and all hell breaks loose. Thank God that they have set up a number of codes – John insisting on it, actually, the consulting detective too used to always work alone to see the need for effective communication during a fight. He’s never been happier that he’s humoured John, though, better not take any chance that he might be the security device’s victim.

For all that these people are CIA agents, and presumably trained, the three of them (Irene included, of course – if she weren’t able to hold her own she’d be dead a long time ago) put them out of commission quickly.

It’s no wonder that his brother freelances with the American. He’s probably helping them to devise further drills that will bring their agents somehow up to par, both in the fighting and brain cells department. They certainly sorely need it.

Not that he wishes for more of a challenge – he’s perfectly content with an easy win – but these people have threatened to _kill John_ and the fact that only one of them is dead is mildly disappointing. Bit not good, probably, but sleeping inside Sherlock there’s a glint of something feral, ready to tear apart anyone who dares to endanger the few people he holds dear. 

His efforts to curb in the blood thirst are cut in by Irene’s voice, declaring herself ‘flattered’ that he figured the combination out. It’s not like he could not, is it? He has not ‘figured out’ her measures. She’s flaunted them in front of him in such a way that he should have been blind not to see. Not that he hasn’t been fleetingly tempted to gouge his eyes out at her blatant display of attempted seduction (he’s always been gay and naked women just are not…appealing), but ruining his main work tools over her was not worth it. 

What makes him wonder is John’s sharp enquiry. He sounds almost…jealous, but that can’t be, because he’s made very obvious that he does not want Sherlock and that they are an ‘open’ partnership. Unless what applies to John does not apply to him, and he’s not allowed to ‘play the field’ (not that he has any desire to, but still). That’s unfair, isn’t it?

Which is why, when his partner remarks that they need the police, he summons them in the most irritating way possible for him. John is the voice of reason, no matter how much he enjoys the danger he considers playing with guns more than a bit not good – it’s clearly been trained into him by the military. Which is why, despite having Scotland Yard and Lestrade’s personal number on his mobile phone, Sherlock creates enough of a scene to cause a panic in the neighbourhood. Someone is going certainly to call the police – and it won’t be him.

When John – predictably – protests, the sleuth belittles his objection. They’ll have a nice fight once home, so the detective will be able to work out his irritation over his soulmate’s unreasonable behaviour. To stop the fight from – possibly – starting immediately, the detective sends his blogger away to further investigate the break in. John complies with any detecting-related tasks, always has.

Now it would be his occasion to talk to Irene. Mission out of the way, he could arrange that chat over pain, pleasure, hurting and being hurt he suspects she could help him deal with. But he can’t help one tiny gloating – she did her best to unsettle him, and still she lost.

If she were a good girl, she’d accept the defeat with a smile. But that never really happens, does it? Nobody is sporting about cases…well, maybe with one exception, but that person is one he’d rather not see anymore. Instead, her first try is deception – but that doesn’t work. He might have trouble reading her, but he does know how blackmail works. It’s fairly simple, and if she didn’t follow the rules of the game Mycroft wouldn’t have felt she needed dealing with in the first place.

Then she switch tactics. Exaggerating, really. She’d die before letting him take the phone? Oh please! That’s so…melodramatic. the sleuth doesn’t doubt that whatever files she collected are a powerful protection, but they can’t be the only one she has, surely? She’s a smart girl (as much he’s forced to recognise). Smart people never hold only a card. She’s lost this one, and if she could just accept it the consulting detective could switch to more pressing subjects (for him).

Before he can find the words to breach the subject, though (how do you ask a consultation out of someone who hates you now? but he can’t fail Mycroft’s mission...), Irene calls for reinforcements, apparently deciding that he’s above het capability of fighting alone. “Kate!” she yells urgently.

Instead of someone coming, they hear John’s bellowed assurance, “She’s fine…well, she’ll be.”

At that, Irene, apparently forgetting her personal plight despite the reassurance, runs toward the voice. Such an attitude is surprising. Soulmates, maybe? It would make the dominatrix an ever more relevant source of information. The detective follows her, hoping to discern this particular puzzle.

Sadly, Kate wears a leather band to cover her name, so there’s no knowing it. When John explains that the girl is just passed out, and should suffer no ill effects, Irene’s lips curl in an amused smirk. “My poor baby. Thank God that she’s used to that,” she purrs, dislodging the doctor from his place at the patient’s side, inviting him to check the back door.

Sherlock nods his assent, and John shrugs and leaves. The sleuth observes the Woman keenly – he shall have to try and deduce the status of her relationship, and with Irene’s impenetrability, that’s going to be hard work. She’s gently caressing her lover, murmuring endearments. She doesn’t take away any of their name coverings, of course. She doesn’t need to. Irene just keeps threading her fingers through her passed out lover’s hair (and wouldn’t that be so nice to have)…

Until she rummages under the nearby bed, and comes forward not with a rug, a pillow, or anything that might have slipped from the bed and be useful to make her partner more comfortable... but with a syringe. An unexpected, lightning quick pounce – being unable to read the Woman might end up being Sherlock’s death – and he’s stabbed before he can defend himself. This is…not good.

Irene orders him to drop the phone – as if he would. From how he’s feeling, he might pass out soon, so that’s going to be a moot point, unless he can keep hold of it until John comes back. He should call for help, shouldn’t he? But he doesn’t want to show to his soulmate how much of an idiot and a failure he can be.

The Woman huffs, and decides to pry her mobile phone from his by now uncoordinated hand herself (and use a riding crop he hasn’t noticed her taking just because, he guesses). But she doesn’t stop there. Once she’s pried the phone off him, she pockets it – in his coat, which she’s still wearing – and remains at his side, once again prying…but his name covering this time.

He tries to shake her off, but the drug has made him uncoordinated and weak, and there’s no way he can fight her off, even if she didn’t have a weapon. “No, no, _no_ ,” the sleuth mumbles, tongue tied, half wanting to scream but finding he has no voice enough. The mounting panic can not clear out whatever she’s shot him with, sadly. 

“Oh, come on pet. Just a peek. I _deserve_ it after all the trouble you’ve caused,” she snaps sternly.

Despite his pitiful attempts to claw at her, or tug himself away, she sees…and a slow smirk paints itself on her mischievous face. “You two are not together yet,” she declares, clearly having deduced it from their earlier interactions.  If the professional dominatrix couldn’t perceive whether people were romantically and/or sexually involved, she’d abysmal at her job.

“How odd. Well, you can keep your cover, pet,” she concedes softly. Not from her, but – from the general public (and his soulmate, who clearly doesn’t want to be reminded of their unfortunate destined pairing by his own name’s sight). While closing back the metal bracelet that is his shield, she catches a bit of skin in the clasp, making him whimper softly because yes, he’s had worse, of course, but it smarts like hell and his defences are down. Judging from her smug expression, it’s not an accident.

At this point, the detective is groaning hoarsely, “John, John, John,” because he really, _really_ doesn’t want to discover how much worse it can turn (very much so, but he has not the brain power to imagine it).

“We don’t want him around yet,” the Woman objects in a purr. “How to keep him away…oh right. I got my phone, but I’ve accidentally confiscated yours. You can have it back…in a minute,” she muses, grinning.

The dominatrix messes with his mobile phone (during a case, when he might need to call because of an emergency at any time, he does not keep it password-locked) – and utters the loudest, obscenest moan the consulting detective has ever heard.

Will John think they’re getting busy here? Give them space to have wild, kinky sex? No, please, no… “John,” Sherlock beseechs, once again, but his voice is too shaky to carry to the next room.                    

“Hush, pet. Sleep tight,” the Woman commands.

He’s not going to. He’s not…John…   


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I still do not own a single thing.

 

John has ended his little patrol, and he’s eager to report to his colleague (they’re colleagues, at least…here). Yeah, he’ll admit it, if only to himself. He doesn’t want Sherlock alone with the…yeah, let’s keep calling her the woman, but God knows that the blogger has a whole thesaurus of terms he’d rather call her, and none of these are particularly appreciative.

Besides, the sleuth looked uncomfortable in her presence, so he’ll probably welcome him. And in case he does not, and would rather get a more personal taste of her indisputable talents…well, though luck. Payback is a bitch, and the detective has cockblocked his flatmate often enough that he’s overdue for a taste of it. So John briskly marches back to the bedroom he left the others in.

Whatever the doctor expected, it wasn’t this. A near-unconscious Sherlock and a dominatrix that admits blithely to having drugged him, at the same time reassuring John and refusing to bloody confess what she used so he can take the necessary measures? The blogger is a gentleman, always has been, but now he’s really, really tempted, for the first time in his life, to wring a woman’s dainty neck. He would, if he wasn’t busy checking the consulting detective’s state.

Irene seems to ignore the near-murderous waves emitting from him (underestimating him, which is usually something that benefits John both in combat and in day-to-day life, but now it just annoys him greatly).

Before leaving – and with the sort of visits she’s receiving, it is a wonder that she didn’t just get the hell out of here as soon as she incapacitated the detective – the dominatrix feels the need to brag about Sherlock’s interest in her by revealing the exact nature of her safe’s combination. There’s a mischievous glint in her eyes, but the blogger doesn’t lose his time trying to puzzle the reason for it out. He has bigger things to worry about. Like his friend condition.

Honestly, if she wanted a jealous reaction, she missed her mark. The only fleeting thought related to the quip John allows himself is a silly consideration about how Sherlock missed his own calling…as a Savile Row bespoke tailor. For all the women John has seen naked, he wouldn’t be able to watch someone and figure out their measurements down to the exact inch.

(He will be jealous, of course he will be jealous…later. When he’s less worried. and he will scold himself for it.)

Before he can figure out what to do, John hears a yelled, worried, “Sherlock!” that makes him sigh in relief. He knows that voice.

“In here, Greg!” he shouts back. He could use some help, and that Lestrade has answered the random shots’ complaint is lucky chance.

“Is he hurt badly? What happened?” the inspector queries, looking at the lying sleuth with almost paternal concern.

“Not grievously wounded. Just drugged,” the doctor explains quickly, instinctively taking his patient’s pulse with one hand and carding the other’s fingers through his curls.

The policeman’s face crumbles in disappointment, and he shakes his head sadly.

“He didn’t mean to, Greg! He has *been* drugged,” John points out vehemently.

“Are you sure?” Lestrade asks, voice so very quiet but stern at the same time.

“I am. It’s all fault of  the bloody woman who is behind the dead body in the other room, too. But that will keep, and I guess you didn’t arrive alone, so you can leave whoever it is guarding the crime scene. Would you help me bring Sherlock home? I can’t exactly carry him by myself,” the blogger assures, shrugging. Otherwise he’ll have to call an ambulance, and then they’ll bring Sherlock to a hospital, and the consulting detective will be so annoyed when he’s back to consciousness.

It is testament to the inspector’s friendship that he replies, “Sure. Just let me tell Sally.” Of all the cops, John can’t help but feel a twinge of regret that she’s here – the spiteful woman is not whom he wants to witness the frailest of his friend’s moments. But as long as she doesn’t leave the crime scene, they can probably avoid her. She will know what happened – and mock them about it – but she will not see him. And once Sherlock is fine again, he can deal with her taunts easily. John leaves it to him, because the way he’s tempted to personally deal with Sally would get him thrown in jail for assaulting an officer. John is a gentleman, but sergeant Donovan is very good at making you forget her gender. 

Lestrade is back, and they have a momentary setback when they try to carry Sherlock. The sleuth has been still and mumbling slivers of apparently unrelated words until now, but when Greg tries to hold his legs he kicks weakly and uncoordinatedly. Sherlock’s semi-delirium, too, is interrupted by a slurred but surprisingly rational sentence. “ D’nt touch. ‘Ont touch. Only Jawn can touch.”

John can’t help it – he hugs his friend tighter. The detective is drugged with God knows what, and somehow still recognizes him and trusts him.

Lestrade lets him go, and laughs good-naturedly. Afterwards, he gets his phone out and starts filming the sleuth who somehow, despite the impairment of his fine motor skills, seems determined to climb on John’s lap and cling to him. “God knows I’ve seen him drugged, but I’ve never seen him get all cuddly,” he remarks, with an apologetic look. Maybe it’s the type of drug, but the inspector suspects it has more to do with the people involved, and his smile says as much.

“Love, it’s only Lestrade” John murmurs soothingly, the endearment slipping out without him noticing. No sense calling him Greg and puzzling the tripping sleuth further. “You have to let him touch you – you’re too tall for me to carry alone.”

“No woman...woman,” Sherlock mumbles, before going quiet again.

“No, she’s gone,” the doctor assures.

Their next attempt goes well, with the detective surrendering his body to be lifted and carried away. He’s still, as much as he can, leaning over John, which means that the inspector does less than his own fair share of work, but the doctor doesn’t complain. Honestly, John finds the detective’s limpet attitude rather endearing. And if the sleuth is still huffing broken pieces of…are these deductions? He just said ‘hiker,’ didn’t he? Is he working the case they’ve been so rudely pulled away from? in John’s ear, he just smiles and tries not to let the tickle of his breath make him laugh and possibly jostle the man.

At least the detective being out of it means he does not protest about being hauled into a police car, to the enthusiasm of the neighbourhood who sees the gun-wielding maniac of before hauled away and imagines him jailed for life – someone is clapping, for God’s sake.

When they arrive at Baker Street, though, Sherlock is once again randomly waving his legs, apparently with coordination enough now to accidentally-on-purpose (they might never know) kick Greg’s arm and then somehow stumbling out of the car by himself.

John hurries to catch him before the man can faceplant on their threshold, but his sudden bout of energy makes clear that he can now drag his flatmate home with a bit of cooperation that makes the inspector’s presence unnecessary, and Lestrade does have a body to clean up (what will the CIA have to say about that?). Still, before thanking him and sending him on his way, the blogger has one curiosity to appease. “Gunshots might have been reported, but you couldn’t be sure that had been an actual murder. So why did you came? Not that I’m not very grateful for it.”

“I got a text from Mycroft’s PA, ‘requesting’ my presence on the scene. Sadly, it’s not the first time that happens – and it always means that Sherlock is in trouble.” 

John nods his thanks and proceeds to hold a stumbling but somehow responsive, if not alert (the sleuth is responding all right, at least to physical stimuli like hitting the steps…what that warps into in his mind the doctor has no idea) flatmate up the stairs and into the flat.

It does not surprise him that Mycroft set up an alarm system with the inspector, God knows that his little brother is prone to getting into trouble. The doctor is even grateful that his friend had someone by his side when he needed it. But a part of him can’t help but wonder if, after all, Greg is on the elder Holmes’ payroll. Did Mycroft attempt to buy him out too? The detective didn’t seem at all surprised when his brother tried to with John.

Irrational as it might be, the blogger feels as if he should have been there for Sherlock before. Right, it is hard to be there for someone you don’t know yet, but fuck it, his brain said. Maybe only because he’s _Sherlock_ (why did John have to land with such a name as his own destiny?), but his brain insists that instead of getting shot in the bloody desert he should have looked harder. Located him earlier… and made sure it wasn’t Lestrade’s job to handle the consulting detective’s doped self. Pushed the genius to give it up earlier. (The inspector’s reaction before was that of the disappointed and the weary, but absolutely not of the surprised.)

The doctor manages to drag his patient to his room, and the sleuth lands awkwardly on the bed, one arm somehow folded beneath himself. At that, he whines pathetically. John automatically makes him more comfortable, and finally notices (it’s true that he doesn’t observe, but frankly he’s been so upset over the whole drug thing that he has not noticed anything else) the tiny bit of inked flesh clasped by the bracelet. That must hurt. When he moves to open it, though, Sherlock trashes violently.

“Don’t…not…no,” the detective groans loudly.

His blogger has no idea why this would happen. Sure, his flatmate is always very careful to hide the name-blob (it has to be a blob, by now, since his soulmate is dead according to him)…it makes sense that he doesn’t want to be remembered of that. But that he would prefer to remain in pain rather than risking glancing at it…isn’t that a bit much?

He simply refuses to leave Sherlock to suffer. They’ll have to work around it. So he roots around his friend’s bedroom, finds a soft, silk, dark blue handkerchief (figures someone like his posh flatmate would have cloth handkerchief at all, nevermind silken ones) and ties it laxly over the bracelet. Then he works blindly under it to unclasp the name covering and lets it fall to the floor. There. His friend won’t have to see the painful reminder of his blob.

Instinctively, the sleuth brings his hurting wrist to his mouth and starts licking and sucking the abused flesh trough the cloth, quite literally licking his wounds, and John averts his eyes. He shouldn’t find the sight enticing, but there’s something, perhaps the muffled moans his flatmate lets out, that are short-circuiting his brain. Fuck it. He needs out of the room. So, instead of continuing to undress the detective (definitely a bad idea, now), he simply busies himself by taking off the man’s shoes, somehow pushing his legs on the bed and tucking him in. There. Done.

John needs out. There’s no way he’s going to watch over his patient. He tells himself he’s going to check on him, periodically, but just now he needs tea. And maybe ice. And to think of anything else but the sounds Sherlock – damn his name! – can apparently produce. He should turn on the tv, or the radio…anything that makes noise that could drown out the ones running on repeat in his head.

The blogger would pat his own back if it made sense, because it works. When, a couple of hours later, he hears an urgent, garbled call and a rather suspicious thud, he rushes over to his friend’s room, his head completely clear of impure thoughts.

The sleuth managed to fall from the bed, and seeing him aware and responsive – well, more responsive than he’s been since he’s been dosed – is a relief. Even if apparently he has some troubles separating the truth of what happened (not that he was aware for most of it) from whatever dream he’s been immersed in, but that’s not too worrying. He seems positive that the Woman has invaded his bedroom.

It makes sense, of course, that she’d be in his hallucinations, being the one who caused them in the first place. Still, John can’t help but feel the pinprick of illogic, shameful jealousy. Why can’t the detective delete her? (Because they’re still mid her case, don’t be ridiculous, he tells himself.)

The consulting detective scouring the room in search of the dominatrix is kind of adorable, honestly. But he needs more rest, not to try to move furniture to check non-existent hiding spots. As if John would let Irene get at him after what she’s done. Doesn’t Sherlock trust his blogger to protect him?

So, obviously, the doctor bodily drags his favourite patient back to bed. The sleuth, despite his anxiousness, is blessedly unresisting. Once again, he covers Sherlock with the sheets – it won’t do for him to catch a cold while he sleeps off whatever he’s been injected with. He pats his friend lightly, in a fond and reassuring manner, like with a child. Only later John will be hit by exactly what part of him he’s been patting – but it is not his fault that the consulting detective has such a pat-inviting rump, or that any other part of him is so sharp-angled.

At the moment, though,  he’s too busy reassuring his friend that all will be fine, and that while he might not be at his bedside, he’s not too far – never too far – ready to answer any call and help with whatever might be needed, to ponder about anatomy.

Of course, instead of offering a thank you (he doesn’t expect one, of course not!) or even a simple acknowledgement, the bloody detective manages – even while not entirely aware – to make him feel useless with a curt sentence. Oh well. Sherlock doesn’t mean it…does he? Let’s be honest, he probably does, and he’s right about it, too. No, no – tomorrow things will look up. They have cases to work on, and ways to distract themselves from being gloomy. He gets blue when he’s alone, but he’s not now. That’s all that matters.

He’s just left Sherlock to rest, when he hears a sound he remembers too well. Discounting the idea that Irene is actually hiding inside the sleuth’s closet, it means he recorded it. And for whatever reason decided to play it. ( _One_.)                               

The following day sees Mycroft hovering over their quiet, comfy breakfast. With his little brother promising him the photos for yesterday night, it is not surprising. Sherlock is well again to be sassy at his brother, which makes John gleeful.

He can’t help but add his own two cents, because let’s say it, there is no way the British government did not know about how many people the dominatrix had pursuing her, and he did not bloody warn them. So a bit of bickering is the least he can expect. It is one thing to try to keep the sleuth blind about his client (nevermind that did not work). It is an entirely different thing to hide the dangers of the job.              

Until John’s satisfaction is suddenly ruined by the bloody orgasmic moan. The detective is not replaying it, so why? Oh – text. Someone has been awarded a personalized ringtone. Nobody has that honour. Not Mycroft, if only so his brother can decide to ignore the call/text without checking the caller’s id. Not John, whom the sleuth contacts the most. Once, when his flatmate asked out of curiosity (he does have a special ringtone for his sister), the consulting detective said it was a juvenile practice and that he was capable of deducing who was anyway. But apparently Irene fucking Adler is worth being juvenile over. Good to know. _Two_ , the doctor automatically tallies.

To John’s surprise, while the Holmes brothers usually fight wordlessly, in glares and dissonant violin notes, Sherlock actually gives voice to what John has been thinking, and calls out the British fucking government on his lack of warning. Sometimes it is good to be mind-read. It gives him, at least, the chance to snark at Mycroft too, and – to his delight – the all-powerful politician gets scolded by Mrs. Hudson like a wayward child.

John can’t help but feel happy when the sleuth and he chastise the annoyed, snide Mycroft together. It is good to know they are on the same wavelength, and the elder Holmes cowering and obeying is just the cherry on the metaphorical cake.

If only his mood didn’t get immediately ruined by moan number three… He can’t help it. He addresses the question the moment Mycroft is otherwise busy.

‘Joke’, the sleuth claims. Well, John is not an idiot. Sherlock can hack into his computer any time he so chooses. He can probably hack his brother’s bloody computer, too, despite it being the most protected in England. He can certainly change the ringtone of his own damned text messages if the obscene sound makes him uncomfortable. In fact, any sane person that has an often-intruding elserly woman and generally is not a shut-in would have changed that bloody text alert after hearing it the first time.

The fact that his flatmate has not done so means that he enjoys hearing that…that. Not that his blogger can fault him. If one thing is clear, by now, is that Sherlock tends to get a boner for cleverness, and being outsmarted (even if the doctor personally considers drugging someone cheating) ensures that the consulting detective will not forget the Woman easily.

And apparently Mycroft is not as clever as he believes himself to be, if he thinks he can take Sherlock off the case with a word. It’s one thing to distract him from cases that are, apparently, absurdly simple (though John still doesn’t get the dead-in-an-empty-field thing) by offering something better. But even if the sleuth weren’t fascinated with the dominatrix, he’s on the case now and will not abandon it until it’s solved. Or at least until Lestrade comes along with a serial killer. Because the alternative is being bored…which the doctor has soon learned is toxic to Sherlock. You’d think his bloody brother would know that.

Not that John would not love if they just forgot the very existence of the unprincipled woman, but he knows his limits. All he can do is ensure he looks out for his flatmate…and keep counting texts (not that he does that on purpose, exactly – it’s more of a reflex). Maybe he should talk to the detective about this, God knows that his friend messes with his love life on a regular basis. But the problem is that the sleuth’s meddling most often reveals things John ignored (‘just trying to make her boyfriend jealous, John’ and ‘stalker-type, John’ among others). While Sherlock is all too aware of every flaw the Woman might have, and if he chooses to contact her anyway…well, he’s over thirty, and certainly free to pursue every unwise relationship he wants.

The one good thing is that they are not texting all the time like love-struck teenagers. For days, the dreadful sound will not ruin the atmosphere of 221B. Then, suddenly, there’ll be three or four messages in a day. John is trying to figure out a pattern, a reason, a catalyst…but he is not the one with the deductive powers, and without actually reading the texts, he has no chance to figure it out.

The fact that he seriously ponders ‘borrowing’ Sherlock’s mobile phone to read all his conversations with the Woman should scare him – he’s becoming rather more like Mycroft than it is acceptable. About that, maybe he should consult the elder Holmes? He’s pretty sure that the British government could hack into his little brother’s texts… But why would he share them with John in the first place? And what happens if (honestly, it’s more of a when) the sleuth notices he’s been hacked?

No, no, that’s all more than a little not good. He’s not Sherlock’s boyfriend, nor his soulmate (no matter how much he wishes for it) and has no right to snoop in or control his flatmate’s love life. And it is a love life, because if the consulting detective was working on Irene’s case, despite his brother’s vetoing it, with all these texts he would have been able to track her somehow. Obtain her number and from that her position. The sleuth is a brilliant hacker when he wants, and the fact that he has not yet done so means that he is not trying.

The not working and yet not refusing to continue chatting with her (about what? John is burning with the need to know) means that she’s not boring. Somehow. So what can he do? The only feasible thing is get the sleuth a new bone to munch on – metaphorically. A mystery. Any mystery. Hopefully it would be enough to distract the man from his budding relationship, which is about the opposite of sane and safe.

Lestrade would call if he had cases, so there’s no sense in going to bother him. Clients can’t be engineered, either. But he needs a puzzle for his friend. A riddle. Only he has nothing to offer...or has he? Sherlock deduced him to the marrow on sight. But there is one thing the sleuth has never remarked upon. One tiny detail that John is…not ashamed by, but annoyed by, so he’s certainly never volunteered the information. Something that is, he hopes, random enough not to be easily deduced. If he can tease his flatmate properly, maybe he will be distracted by his budding relationship. Things should hopefully still be embryonic enough that a challenge to his deductive powers might lead the detective to forget any flirting, God bless his rather obsessive nature.

So yes,maybe it is a rather insane plan, but John is just looking out for his friend, because when your girlfriend to be starts your relationship by drugging you up to the gills, maybe you really shouldn’t continue fawning after her. ( _Seventeen._ We are at seventeen.)

The next time he opens the blog to check if anyone has commented, and Sherlock comes to read over his shoulder – the man has no sense of personal space at all, not that John is complaining – he utters casually, “I was thinking to change my blog’s name. You know, ‘The blog of John H. Watson’ could make someone curious to discover what the H. stands for…and I really wouldn’t want that.” Reverse psychology at his finest, but with a man as curious as a monkey, it works like a charm.

“Why? How bad can a name be?” the detective asks immediately, almost breathing it in John’s ear and – dammit, he needs space!

“I just don’t like it. And I’d thank you to leave it at that,” he replies. Hook, line and…

“Oh come on, John!” his friend whines petulantly. “You know I will deduce it anyway!”

…sinker.

“No you won’t,” the blogger challenges, smiling. “There are no clues for you to work out.” At least he hopes so. This game has to last if he wants to take his friend’s mind off Irene.

“Is that a challenge, John?” Sherlock rumbles, his voice velvety-dark (and now John is starting to have synaesthesia chaos in his mind, this has to stop!).

“It is not,” the blogger counters, and the sleuth grins smugly…at least until he continues, “Just a fact.”

At this, the consulting detective frowns. “What will you do when I do deduce it?”

“I wasn’t aware we’d started a bet,” the doctor points out, hiding his gleefulness and apparently nonchalant. “And anyway, I already do everything you ask of me. Don’t I?”

“Then you will abstain from dating. For a week. At least I won’t have to listen to you grousing how I ruined your chances of getting laid by texting or some other inane excuse,” Sherlock declares haughtily. Well, this is certainly something John would not usually comply with – not without much complaining.

“And if you can’t, for a week you will have to eat whatever I put in front of you, no fussing,” John retorts. The main aim is to distract his friend from Irene, but it does not mean that he cannot try to milk the occasion for all its worth. Sherlock does need to be fed a bit.

They shake hands to seal the deal. Let the investigation start.

Sherlock knows he shouldn’t have asked for such a prize. John might be his soulmate, but he has clearly rejected that status. As such. he is perfectly free to search companionship wherever he prefers. But a sweet, sweet week where he doesn’t have to see the man smarten up to impress some boring, not even all that pretty woman, or come back with that too smug-expression and reeking of her perfume (fine, that might be only due to the sleuth’s overacute senses, but still) is too appealing to pass up.

Besides, John frowns every single time Irene texts. He doesn’t mention it, apparently having decided that if they have no bond at all the detective is free to entertain whatever relationship he wants, but he doesn’t like it. Which is the only reason he has not changed the woman’s obnoxious text alert yet or just blocked her number.

If she talked about something sensible, instead of doggedly insisting about ‘having dinner’ with him, they might have a friendly and informative relationship. But there’s no asking her for explanations when she stubbornly wants into his pants. That’s not an exchange he’ll ever agree to – he didn’t for drugs, for God’s sake!

But nevermind the highly amusing and satisfying annoyance his soulmate implies, rather than showing. If his blogger would say Sherlock is not allowed to pursue her (not that he’s pursuing – he’s just…letting himself be pursued), the double standard would make the consulting detective furious. Instead, John does not speak…but he grimaces. Sherlock doesn’t think the doctor is feeling as aggravated by it as his serial dating hurts him, but hey, even a tiny hurt is a way to get back to him. To see how he likes being in the detective’s shoes, for once.

As for their bet, the consulting detective has no doubt that he can solve that quickly. Maybe he will change Irene’s tone for the week of respite he’ll win himself, so both can have a blessed good time. Given that his soulmate’s parents have given him the most bloody common name in existence, just checking the statistics of most popular names in the years around John’s birth should ensure his victory, with no more than one or two tries.

…He should have known better than _assuming things_. Mycroft would be so disappointed in him if he knew. If he’d been named something ridiculously dull like “John Henry” his friend would not have expressed any distaste over it, or tried to conceal it. Hell, he probably would have put the whole name on his blog’s title instead of ‘John H.’.

No, no, he must think…embarrassing names? Odd sounding names? Names that lend themselves to ridiculous shortenings? He would do better, he’s sure, if he weren’t distracted by the fact that apparently the threat of having to go without a date for seven days straight, when inevitably Sherlock deduces it, means that he’s anxious to make up for it by pulling as often and as many insipid women he can while he’s still able to.

It’s galling. It’s not just that his soulmate is parading his conquests (or might as well, given the sleuth has to watch him dress up for them – after a few unfortunate meetings, the doctor learns quickly not to let any of them into the flat). It’s that, while the consulting detective is clearly not good enough for him, John is about the opposite of finicky when picking up a partner.

Someone wonderful like the former army doctor deserves only the best, and Sherlock is ready to admit he’s not that – in none of the definitions of the word, probably. But these women…they are not exceptionally witty, or smart (in fact, the lot of them are unspeakably dull). They’re not breathtakingly beautiful. They’re not even especially kinky – hell, if John had hooked up with Irene’s sub because she knew how to accommodate his sexual needs, and he believed Sherlock could not (though he should ask – whatever it was, the sleuth would certainly try, if it warranted him acceptance), it would make at least some modicum of sense.

But apparently the requisites for being John Watson’s partner include only a)lady parts (which the detective sorely lacks) and b)being painfully average. Given that John is anything _but_ average, he’s smart and competent and charming and handsome, one can’t help but wonder why he would pursue such blatant mismatches so stubbornly.      

Annoyed at his own impasse, he tries to distract John from his frankly awful serial dating by going back to the plan Irene’s case so rudely interrupted. Aka, how to seduce John H. Watson in – hopefully – three moves.

1) Wake up to his flatmate already puttering in the kitchen (the former soldier kept the army schedule, while without a case Sherlock tends to store up on sleep he’ll lose when he has something to ponder upon) and brush his curls the tiniest bit so they don’t look like a bird’s nest but are artistically mussed.

2) Drape the bed sheet over himself ancient Roman patrician style.

3) Glide out of his room and gracefully…faceplant on the floor, the damn sheet tripping him when he’s not yet awake enough to coordinate all his limbs?

That’s not what he meant to happen. John’s reaction isn’t even his instinctive “Are you okay?” but an irrepressible, full-bellied laugh. Well, he supposes that he does look rather ridiculous… the consulting detective starts giggling too, shaking his head at his own idiocy. Fine, seduction failed, but he got that happy chortle out of his soulmate, which is almost as good.

John helps him up, and lets his eyes wander over the sheet-clad body, to check he didn’t get hurt after all. And Sherlock really shouldn’t like John’s attention and the contact of his skin, however fleeting or with whatever flimsy excuse he can earn it, but he does.

Days go by and sort of blend in a mix of annoying texts (to both, now; however pleasing it is to see John glare at his phone, one would think Irene would have given up her unwanted advances by now never receiving acknowledgement), random cases too silly to even be worth of mentioning in the blog and the much more challenging Name issue. The sleuth hasn’t been this obsessed with someone’s name since he suspected Victor’s middle name might be John. As for John’s middle name…maybe something from an ancestor? But how far back? (He needs data on the doctor’s family, pronto.)

Until the day they go from an internet phenomenon to something more. Some BBC journalist overhears Lestrade (after a conference about some boring murder or other, so simple he didn’t even think to call Sherlock because the man would only pout) saying he needs to bring some old case files round to Baker Street. After understanding the whom, what and why,  the man decides to invite them on Crime Watch to solve famous historic crimes. Or, to be precise, invites Sherlock.

The world’s only consulting detective insists that he will need his trusty assistant with him, so John ends up in front of the cameras, too. The stupid BBC insisted for him to wear the hat, and  that would have been a dealbreaker for him if John didn’t looked so damn pleased that his talent was being recognised. (This is another thing he cannot figure out. John is interested in what other think…not only about himself, but about his flatmate too. Why does he care?)  

The actual show is boring, really, if not for John’s steadying and…not enamoured, don’t get ahead of yourself, he still doesn’t want you, but decidedly applauding presence.

Until they get home and John has just had time to frown at yet another text from Irene when he receives a call. From his sister. The woman is screeching so loudly Sherlock can hear her five paces from the mobile phone, though he cannot understand very well what she’s saying.

John screams over her, “No he’s not! He’s not, I tell you!” before retiring to his room to have such a conversation in private and slamming the door behind him.

Oh. Harry must have watched the telly, and the fact that “Sherlock” Holmes was beside her brother would make even a hopeless alcoholic suspect that her brother had found his soulmate…and just conveniently forgotten to inform her. The sleuth might not be an expert about human interaction, but he knows that finding fate’s intended for you is usually something to be shared with dear ones. Even celebrated.

Of course, that happens when you aren’t so disappointed in whom you got saddled with that you will stubbornly deny the obvious. Poor John, having to deny any bond with him because really, the sleuth is barely human – ask anyone. He _cannot_ be a proper soulmate.

Still, the casual announcement – the following day – that he’s spending Christmas with Harry when no hint to it had come before (and we are in the first week of December already) makes Sherlock whine, “Why?”

Does John really need to go to prove to his sister that yes, there is nothing between him and ‘Sherlock’? In a “See? He’s not here. I would have dragged my soulmate along,” kind of way, he supposes. John does not like his sister, or her addiction, and he anyway has never contacted her more than exchanging a bunch of texts on his blog. And now suddenly he needs to spend Christmas with her. Is this denial at his finest? Punishment for the sleuth for…he’s not sure, for being himself, probably?

Of course, he’s used to being alone. Mycroft has long lost the will to enforce seasonal reunions that would only make them terribly uncomfortable, as long as his spying tells him his little brother can be left to his own devices without irreparable damages.

Still, he has found his John (one who would balk at the claim, but still nevertheless his, teen!Sherlock insists…or is it the reverse?) and he thought he would have the chance, for once, to…dare he say cuddle, even only in his own brain? It’s unfair that he’s going to be denied it.

If he can find evidence, maybe he could persuade John that, despite the Christmas tropes, he doesn’t need to spend the celebration with his family (excluding him to make a statement out of it). In search of help, he heads for the morgue almost automatically.

Molly is always eager to help him, and she’s…well, to be brutal, average enough that her words might be taken seriously. She’s not a freak. As soon as she sees him, the pathologist blushes and stammers out, “I – I am on the lookout for these fingers you asked me, but really, I’ve not yet…”

The sleuth waves away her concerns. He’s not here for that. “You do have siblings, right?” He has deduced as much, but apparently asking is the polite thing to do, and he wants to be on her good side.

“…Yes?” she replies, looking startled. Why does she sound unsure? One’d think that at least the immediate relations would not be forgettable.

“Do you all get together at Christmas?” the detective keeps interrogating, stern – not that it helps the poor girl relax.

“No.” Oh well, at least she’s sure of this.

“Why not?” Sherlock queries, looking intently at her. Example is good, arguments would be better to offer in defence of his theory.

“Well, one is living in the States,” she points out, shrugging.

“One. Meaning you got more. Do you meet with these?” the consulting detective asks, wondering if he might find evidence against his wishes after all.

“Not really. We’re all very busy, and…well, to be honest they used to tease me horribly, so now I just sort of text them the greetings of the season and leave it at that. It’s not like they invite me, either,” she admits, voice small and tight and just this side of not crying.

“You’re a wise woman, Molly. If they disappoint you, they’re not worth your time. Then why does not John see this?” Sherlock remarks, frustrated.

“See what?” she retorts, puzzled enough that the anguish evaporates.

“He doesn’t like his sister. She’s divorced, and an alcoholic, and just…well, really, he hasn’t interacted with her at all this year but for a handful of her comments on his blog. And yet he’s going to her for Christmas!” he rants, stopping himself shy of pulling at his hair.

“So you’ll be alone?” the pathologist asks, and she’s not flirting, she’s…compassionate? Does even Molly pity him, for fuck’s sake?

“Mrs. Hudson is not going anywhere,” re rebuts gruffly. He’s not even sure, she might be going to her sister, but he’ll be damned if he lets himself be commiserated. “I just don’t get why John would willingly go to see someone he can barely stand,” he can’t help but add, a hint of whine in his voice. He knows why, but he just wishes things were different.

“Well, you said she’s an alcoholic – maybe he’s just worried about her?” Molly wonders, always oh-so-kind.

“If he thought that his presence would stop her he wouldn’t have become my flatmate in the first place,” the sleuth points out sharply, waving her hypothesis away.

“Yes, but…” she objects, still. He does not want objections; he wants proofs to back up his wish.

“It’s perfectly useless for him to go,” the detective declares. He can deny all he wants. His name will always betray him. He can tell Harry that he can’t stand his soulmate, but not that he hasn’t found him. His sister won’t believe him.

“Did you tell John you’ll miss him?” Molly queries, a tiny smile on her lips.

Sherlock looks literally scandalized. Being that needy? This…relationship between them _has to be_ unspoken, lest his soulmate snap and leave.

Still… “You might be onto something, Molly,” he acknowledges, before rushing away. He has wondered long and hard about if they should share Christmas gifts at all – what would be expected, and what might the proper present be. Now he knows. He might not say ‘I’ll miss you’, but he needs a gift that will remind John of all the fun they had together and make him want to come back quickly, rather than – teen! Sherlock is secretly terrified, though he won’t speak up – stay with her and cut all ties with his disappointing soulmate.

Well, he knows the perfect gift. Sure, going back to that shop might seem like a hazard, but there’s the chance that, with the cover dropped, the Tong let it go, or that whoever mans the shop is a random gofer, that will not remember the man who’s ruined the hairpin operation.

“One lucky cat,” he requests, unable to stop himself from grinning at the idea of John’s face. Gag gift? Remember how happy we can be and how much fun we have together souvenir? Implicitly reasserting their bond token? (John might be furious at being implied as the ‘wife’ but if he refuses to be Sherlock’s man he’ll have the gift he bloody deserves and he better not complain.) It’s an everything at the same time present, which makes it ideal. Well, with that his Christmas shopping is done.          

      


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own a thing. A.N. I would like to apologise. Starting this, I had meant to give equal space to John and Sherlock. It seems it’s not happening anymore. Oh well. Authors propose, characters dispose, right?

 

He should have known that things would go pear-shaped. They always did, as far as he was concerned. And only more so since he’s met his…homonym, John, it’s a homonym, no matter Harry’s drunken ravings. (God, how much he’d like for her to be right, for once.)

But Sherlock had come back home from…well, hopefully not the morgue, looking all smug with his package and proclaiming he’s got John’s Christmas gift, “but no peeking!” and he’s done for this December.

Which obviously prompts the doctor to ask, “Really? So what did you get for Mrs. Hudson?” Only to receive a blank stare. “You did buy something for het, right? Sherlock, the woman puts up with bullet holes in her walls. The least you can do is show some gratitude at Christmas!” he scolds sternly.

“Well? What did _you_ get her?” the detective counters, always getting prickly when he suspects he should feel guilty – at least that much, John has figured out.

He sighs. “Nothing still, but I have every intention to find her something nice. But with shifts, cases and, now, even participating to tv shows, sorry if I did not find a moment to run that particular errand.”

His flatmate huffs, as if John is the one being unreasonable.  

Prey of a terrible suspect, the blogger queries, “Did you get anything for people _but_ me?”

The detective blinks, half innocent and half puzzled, and counters, “Why would I? It’s not like anyone else cares about me.”

Which just about breaks John’s heart into little pieces. He only keeps it together because he’s a man on a mission: to prove him wrong. “You can’t mean that, Sherlock! Besides Mrs. Hudson – believe me, she has to care about you since she hasn’t evicted you yet – of course there are other people who like you and care for you. What about Mycroft? Molly? Greg?” he replies, all in a breath.

“Who?” the sleuth asks, frowning.

John rolls his eyes at the deliberate show of idiocy. “Detective inspector Lestrade,” he explains all the same.

“You think all these people care about me? Sure, I interact with them, and they find me useful – or, for Molly, mostly the reverse – but I wouldn’t call that anything else than reciprocally using each other,” the consulting detective expounds, perfectly nonchalant – as if the matter of not having any relationship not founded on the reciprocal exploitation was not a tragedy, but just the way the world works.

And maybe, John wonders, heart aching, that is really what he thinks. Someone has to uproot that from his magnificent brain – and he is the man for the job. If only because, apparently, there is no one else. “That’s it. We’re having a Christmas party, at Christmas’ Eve,” he decrees, unconsciously going into captain mode.

“Why would you want something so ridiculous?” the detective wonders, raising an eyebrow.

“To prove you that you’re wrong. I mean, if all the people you know only tolerate you for some sort of reciprocal usefulness exchange, nobody will want to be in your company in a not-working setting, right?” the blogger explains, trying to make an appealing argument for Sherlock’s logic.

“This is our flat,” the consulting detective points out. “They might consider a party with you worthy of tolerating, or at least ignoring, my presence. For some reason, you are rather charming, and as such, an attractive companion.”

“…Thanks?” John replies. True, the whole ‘for some reason’ means that his flatmate doesn’t see his appeal at all, but it’s not like he expected him to. “If this is a concern, though, it is easily resolved. You will be the one inviting them, and you can let drop that I will be staying with my sister.”

“But you’re not going to, are you?” Sherlock queries, sounding almost…alarmed? It makes no sense, though. “You’re only spending the actual Christmas day with her, aren’t you?” 

“Yeah, of course I am. But we don’t want your results to get skewered, do we? You are a phenomenal bloody actor; you can sell this one tiny lie,” the doctor states, with a smile that hopefully reassures his friend.

“Will we have to go through with the party, if they accept?” the detective queries, a hint of a pout already forming.

“We will,” the blond declares, “otherwise you’ll forever be left in doubt about whether they would tolerate you in a not-work, or better said, reciprocal exploitation setting. They will honestly enjoy your company, Sherlock. Because you’re lovely.”

The sudden blush from his flatmate reminds John that ‘lovely’ is not exactly on par with the other praising adjectives with which he’s so used to showering his friend. Amazing is one thing. Lovely is quite another.

“Because with you it is easy to have a lovely time, I meant to say,” he quickly corrects himself. “I certainly do.”

“I still think you’ll discover you are the only one,” the sleuth objects.

“Only one way to find out, don’t you think?” the blogger quips, handing Sherlock his phone with a smile.

Of course, the only way to prove him wrong is to actually call. To the consulting detective’s bafflement, everyone accepts promptly. They seem even more keen, if anything, when informed of John’s probable absence. That these people care for him, and don’t want him to be lonely, apparently does not compute, given the genius’ puzzled frown.

“You know what this mean, don’t you?” John points out, when everyone has agreed to come. “We’re having a Christmas party. You’ll have to buy some form of gift for them – even a tiny thing.”

“You can take my credit card, John. I trust you with the matter,” his flatmate replies immediately.

“Oh no. These are going to be your gifts. I mean, they can be ours, if you want, I don’t mind giving a joint gift with you. But you are definitely coming with me and helping me select them,” the former Captain instructs, his officer persona coming unexpectedly to the forefront.

“But John…there will be…people!” the over five foot tall three years old he lives with whines.

“Absolutely,” the blogger confirms, way too gleeful.

“I might get overwhelmed by the amount of data…and stupidity…in the air,” Sherlock insists, plaintive still.

“I’ll be with you – have your back. Come on, you can do this.  At most, we only have to visit four shops,” the kind doctor coaxes.

“Three,” the sleuth barters immediately. “I’ll just take a case for Mycroft. That will be the only gifts he wants, anyway.”

“Oh, I don’t know – you’ve led me to believe the best possible gift for Mycroft is cake,” John objects, grinning.

“Fine, maybe four,” the consulting detective concedes, smirking back. Any occasion to rib his brother is welcome.

For a while, things go smoothly. Pastries – not cake, in the end – for Mycroft, from the best bakery in all of London. A nice shawl for Mrs. Hudson. The blogger somehow manages to stop Sherlock from buying Greg a House Chores for Dummies book despite his protests.

“Because he’s going to be divorced very soon, so he’ll have to look after himself, John!” the detective grouses, but he’s ultimately rebuffed.

At the same time, John wonders if he should purchase a copy tomorrow for Sherlock as half of his gift, because God knows if anyone needs such a book it is his flatmate. In the end, he decides against it. Being passive-aggressive would be perfectly useless with him.

Molly will get a kittens decorated tote bag that’s sure to make her squeal (though hopefully not too jarringly). It is actually Sherlock’s idea, and John is rather proud of him. It’s rather hard to find a balance when the person you’re buying a gift for is crushing on you, and you don’t want to encourage her, and at the same time has done you so many favours that you need a gift important enough to convey many, many untold thank-yous.

Sadly, it would be too much to ask for this outing to go untroubled. They have not had a decent case since the start of the month, though they did take some simple things the sleuth would not have left his armchair for usually, simply because they were both going stir-crazy.

And now his friend has been coerced into shopping, been bombarded with Christmas-themed music not always well rendered, shoved around by other last-minute shoppers and generally subjected to a mayhem of contrasting, useless data from people he does not care about, and that will require a long deletion process.

When he tries to shove someone out of the way himself, though, on the way back, it happens to be a pretend Santa Claus with a gaggle of doe-eyed children around him. And the man, rather than cursing him or something, loudly ho-ho-hoes and asks him why he’s in such a sour mood (isn’t everyone?) and what he wants for Christmas. Maybe he’s just a very committed actor.

Sherlock, though, explodes like a badly used pressure cooker, yells about his soulcrushing boredom (…fine) and asks at full volume for a nice, juicy murder. Getting descriptive about what he wants (including chopped body parts from different unidentifiable victims).

The unfortunate Santa looks at him in fear, manoeuvring himself between the violent psychopath and the kids. Of course, the consulting detective is not a serial killer, but the poor man doesn’t know, and John notices and silently appreciates him. The kids, obviously, start sobbing and crying noisily, which attracts the parents’ fury and – would you believe it? – the sleuth’s puzzlement. Then again, he tried to solve Carl Powers’ murder when he was fucking eight, John reminds himself, so maybe he’s been asking Santa for a juicy murder since he was their age.

Before the invoked police can arrive, the blogger manages to persuade his companion to flee the scene and get back home. They have the gifts they came for, and Sherlock does not ask for anything better than getting out of the crowd. Accidentally having to outrun the cops makes it only more fun (for him as well, even if John would never admit it).

It hits John only at this point that he has not a gift for his flatmate – yet. They have agreed that the gifts for their friends will be common (despite the detective waving it away, he’s determined to give him his share of the money spent on them).

But with Sherlock’s preternatural deductive powers, his not being attached to any material things – beside the skull and his violin – and the fact that the madman is, put bluntly, richer than him, finding a gift that his friend will like and, preferably, not guess as soon as John buys it is really not that easy.

Luckily, the following day the consulting detective – still without a case – remains grumbling on the sofa. John, suddenly stricken by inspiration and giggling to himself, goes to buy the right gift for his own overgrown toddler.

Hopefully it will at least make him laugh. And it will be a seasonal-appropriated change from his much despised deerstalker, at least. Not that his friend will let himself be caught dead using it. much less wearing it in public.

But it could be odd enough that he will not be able to deduce it. After all, he’d have to imagine it first. And it wouldn’t surprise John if his flatmate had deleted Christmas legends (and isn’t this so very sad?).

He comes back home studiously nonchalant. Only for Sherlock to perk up upon seeing him and asking eagerly, “Did you find us a case?”

“No, sorry, mate. Why would you think so?” he replies, honestly curious.

“Because you…oh, of course. My Christmas gift. That’s why you ooze so much smugness for having something that’ll make me happy. Dull,” the sleuth corrects himself, plopping back down on the sofa.

“I _ooze smugness_?” the blogger echoes, disbelieving.

“Might as well, when you try so very hard to play normal. Your ‘never mind me, I am an ordinary bloke with nothing to hide at all’ means ‘I have something you will like, and I will make you so very happy soon’. You are _horrible_ at pretending, John,” the detective scolds, but the smile betrays how fond he is of that particular flaw. 

“Not my fault that you are a bloody genius,” the blond objects, “If I cannot deceive you or your brother, it doesn’t mean that anyone else would see through me. By the way, can I beseech you not to deduce it until I give it to you?”

“You won’t be there at Christmas anyway,” Sherlock points out, pouting full force.

“Which is why I thought we might exchange gifts before the party. Can you resist the urge to deduce it until then?” the doctor queries.

“Why would I want to resist it?” the detective asks, honestly puzzled. This is what he does – the one remarkable trait he has. The one that makes his disappointed soulmate heap sweet, sweet praise on his starved soul. If he can gain another ‘brilliant’, that’s worth some snooping and deducing, certainly? (Snooping because John – fond of traditions as he is – will certainly try to hide his gift, but come on, the house is not that big).

“For me,” his blogger replies simply, and that’s it. The magic words that will forever make Sherlock bend to his mate’s desires. Hopefully John doesn’t realise it still – otherwise the sleuth is doomed.

“I suppose I could,” the consulting detective agrees, with a shrug and a pout aimed to mislead John about how very unable to displease him he is. Not when he knows that the matter is important to John, at least. With the little things – body parts, experiments, shirking chores – he will always try the man, but these don’t count.

The soft, grateful smile he receives is enough to warm his heart and make him vow to deserve more of these. “Besides, I have already something to apply my deductive powers…Hannibal.” Yeah, he’s reduced to wild guessing now.

“Christ, Sherlock! No!” John H. Watson yells, aghast.

“Well, I checked – that cannibal character whose movie you made me watch appeared first in 1981, and before the name referenced a great, if ultimately unfortunate, general. So it seemed plausible,” the sleuth explains.

“Don’t make things impossible for me though – go hide it. If you just leave it around, I’ll have no choice. I cannot turn off my brain, John. Not without chemical aids whose use you wouldn’t approve,” he adds. At least his friend had mixed the gift among other groceries and not come home with the bag of the shop inevitably inkling him.

His flatmate obeys immediately taking the stairs to his room two at a time (something Sherlock is still proud of – he might be inadequate, but he’d like to see any of his girlfriend see through and remedy _that_ ). Coming back down after a short time, his blogger orders, “No snooping in my room. I can’t exactly rent a safe-deposit box. Not that it would be safe from you.”

The smile he receives makes the sleuth smile back, blissful, without even realizing he’s done that. He’s supposed to be frustrated. Bored. Certainly not smiling dopily at being issued boundaries in his own home, of all things.

Thank God that an excuse to continue being happy, without John figuring out all of Sherlock’s brain chemical balance hangs on him, comes just then in the form of a client. (Not a locked room, dismembered one, though, because Santa does not exist.)

True, it is disappointingly simple, but it gives him the excuse to play around and show off. It also sort of gives him pause, the way the victim has been murdered because he was involved in a relationship…and half, not really two-timing, with people, neither of which were his soulmate. Not even homonyms. He knows people do that, he’s seen more than his fair share of it on cases, but it still puzzles him.

Why would anyone get involved with people who cannot possibly be their destined one? Never mind John, he has the excuse of having been mismatched, but why get into a relationship that will never make you Happy? If anyone (aka Mycroft) pointed out to him that this reasoning is eminently romantic, while most people are, if not logical, at least pragmatic, Sherlock would blush and deny it to his last breath.

The cold front he offers to the world is ruined at the point where he blesses the fact that there are actually two places that need to be not d out, in order to catch their murderer. Because the mere idea of cuddling together in the dark, quiet, barely breathing, all senses alight, makes him need a cold shower. John would undoubtedly get angry with him.

Still, he gets frustrated – no, not in that sense, he keeps himself too focused on the case to allow himself that – with the way people never seem to _think_. Hope, all these months ago, had a point. He would have got away with it – if he’d bothered to start such a relationship, in the first place. There were so many sensible alternatives, but no, people just murdered in a fit of rage and then scrambled to cover it up. Of course they got caught, hell, even their _client_ had solved it, and only came to them because the ‘how’ had her stumped.

If he complains about it, the following day, it’s only his right, isn’t it? After all, it will probably be his _best crime_ around the holidays. People do snap and attack each other – not that he doesn’t understand that, he’d get the urge to murder his brother too if he were forced in a yearly reunion – but they are terribly dull about it. All the creative criminals seem to take a break around Christmas. Infected by the seasonal goodwill…or possibly spending the festivities finalizing the details of their master plans.

And John is so insensitive. He offers his perfect tea to cheer him up, yes, but mostly it is obvious that he’s tuning his flatmate out, going about his own errands and sidestepping the sleuth when he gets up from the sofa to bring his grievances to what should be a sympathetic ear.    

 His flatmate takes the frozen turkey out of the fridge, warning him that it needs to unfreeze with a few hours at room temperature, “so whatever you do don’t contaminate it, Sherlock. I’ll be doing the cooking, but I don’t want to order in again tonight. It’s unhealthy.”

“Where are you going?” the detective – not whines, he never whines. He just…ponders. John would not be warning him off if he was there to remind him not to touch it.

“Out. I forgot some of the ingredients for what I have in mind. Well, not exactly forgotten…I could have sworn that we still had some potatoes…” His soulmate’s voice peters out, but he does not accuse Sherlock outright, even if he is the only possible responsible. Mrs. Hudson is more likely to fill their fridge and pantries than empty them.

And the consulting detective offers no explanation. A failed attempt to cook mashed potatoes for John a couple days ago to tempt him away from the nth date with Jessica…Joan…Janice? is not something he wants to flaunt. So he starts offering his observations to the turkey instead, which he privately names Timur, going on at length about how even his new friend would be able to plan a murder better than their last silly murderer, with all the disadvantages of being a bird. His flatmate rolls his eyes (fondly, Sherlock still wants to think) and leaves, waving his goodbye.

Timur offers no objections, but he does not comfort either. Growing frustrated, the sleuth is tempted to throw him away, but he refrains. John will be very cross if he comes back to find his dinner thwarted. Like Mycroft (though not as epicurean) his doctor is not fond of seeing his meals ruined. Sherlock had to learn to make time during his investigations to allow his soulmate to feed himself, even.

But really, the only person he should be angry at is himself. Since when is he so depending on someone paying attention and answering him? A soulless listener used to be the best. It didn’t distract him with stupid questions or objections. His flat(soul)mate has spoiled him. Having someone who _understands_ , when he takes the time to explain, and makes observations he is not forced to immediately delete just not to lose his train of thought, now makes him crave for interaction.

But he cannot follow John around 24/7, to ensure he has his precious input, can he? John has his work. John goes on silly errands (he cannot be expected to do the shopping and maintain his sanity). John…ugh…dates – and he very much does not want his flat(soul)mate around then.

Which brings him back to the matter of the goddamned name. He needs John’s middle name, because he needs him to stop dating – at least for the promised week. Seeing him make sure to look so beautiful, and knowing he’s not allowed to touch, is its own brand of torture. Knowing he cares about impressing a number of random females, just because they have the right body parts, is a constant reminder of his own inadequacies the sleuth would love to go without. Besides, John does not need to dress up to sway anyone, doesn’t he know? He’s naturally sexy.

Now, about the name…the fact that he’s by now reduced to wild guessing proves that John was right, it was picked randomly enough (or according to data he’s not and cannot be privy to, like an obscure ancestor’s name, or the name of his mother’s favourite character) for it to escape deducing.

But, as the saying goes, intelligence is not knowing everything, but knowing where to look up what you don’t know. Some might admittedly regard it as cheating, but what John doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Sherlock can always invent a bullshit deduction once he knows what the goddamn name is.

Which is why the following day, December 22 (the year is almost gone – how did this happen? it seems yesterday that they met in January), as soon as John is out of the door to go to work, the detective slips out himself, headed for the register office. He will fake working for his brother’s, if need be. They won’t hold back any data from one of Mycroft’s minions. National security, you see. Possible identity theft. He has an excuse at the ready that will make any public employee rush to comply.

And indeed he gets the copy of John’s birth certificate that he needs. Mmm…they didn’t even check with his superiors that he indeed worked for Mycroft. He should inform his brother of this security weakness. He gets back home, smiling all the way, and finally discovers the damned name. Hamish. Why didn’t they pick that as first name, honestly? At least there are way less Hamish around that there are Johns, and he might have a marginal chance of finding him with a careful research.

And why does his soulmate dislike it? True, it is a Scottish spelling of another very common name (James) – yes, Sherlock is spending time researching the name, how can he fake a deduction otherwise? – but there are no famous criminals connected to it. Inherited it from some annoying relative? Someone discovered it and teased him about it? (People can be cruel when they find something unusual, Sherlock knows it all too well).

He doesn’t realise that he’s been spending so much time wondering, but John Hamish Watson is a neverending puzzle that he wants to unravel and will probably never manage to. It’s all too easy to get lost in the mental sceneries he’s concocting. Which leads to the tragic end he’d wanted to avoid. His flatmate coming home after work and finding him frowning at the birth certificate.

John’s wide grin makes Sherlock blush, for no reason at all. “So you gave up. You could have asked me if you were so curious,” the doctor remarks.  

“I wasn’t meaning to forfeit,” the sleuth mumbles, eyes once again fixed on the paper in his hands.

“Cheating? Is having to eat like a human being for a week so horrible a prospect?” the blond queries, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s not that,” the detective replies hurriedly, clamping down what the truly unbearable future is. But wait…maybe he can manipulate things into reaping the spoils of victory all the same. “I am just not used to losing in such games but to Mycroft,” he admits, redirecting the conversation. “I won’t try to weasel out of my penalty, though. For the next seven days, I will eat whatever you put in front of me. These were the terms of the bet, yes?”

“Yes,” his blogger confirms, frowning. “Why do I sense that you’re going to add something I won’t like, though?”

Teen! Sherlock is beaming in his attic, very tempted to reply, “Because you are a pretty damn smart man, love, and have survived this long by spotting traps from a mile away.” That would be counterproductive to say, though. Admitting to trying to con someone is not the best way into anyone’s good graces.

“I don’t know what you mean,” the consulting detective quips instead, “I just wanted to let you know that you can’t expect me to feed myself this week. With all you’ll undoubtedly put before me in an attempt to start me on a healthy diet, I’d gain at least a pound in the next seven days if I indulged in any extra snacks.” There. John hates when he misses meals, so he can’t go out on dinner dates. True, he might arrange to go out afterwards, but if he can concoct something he can have him all to himself. He’s not above drugging him to ensure his soulmate will be too tired to go gallivanting, honestly. Bit not good, probably, but if John hadn’t driven him to despair he wouldn’t need to go to such extremes.

“Then I’ll be claiming my prize starting after Christmas,” John declares, shrugging.

“What? Why?” the consulting detective protests automatically.

“Have you forgotten that I’m going to Harry’s? The last thing I want is you starving at Christmas out of sheer stubbornness,” his blogger answers, voice warm despite the critique.

“No, I haven’t,” the sleuth replies, in a clipped tone. He would very much like to, but John looking forward to abandoning him is not something he can delete, sadly.

The matter gets mercifully ditched, and they spend the evening in comfortable, quiet companionship, both pretending to be busy with their own pastimes. Sherlock managed to obtain a whole hand out of Molly by noticing that she’s changed the brand of her cosmetics. The fact that he can tell make-up brands apart is apparently not enough of a hint for her about his preferences, luckily for him.

As for John, he’s surfing the web, looking at cat videos. Apparently they are a longstanding favourite. Especially the ‘cats forgetting how to cat’ ones. The consulting detective is too annoyed by the use of the noun as a verb in an improper sense to love the silly things. He’s not interested in catting, whether it relates to whipping, sex (this might be Irene’s verb, now that he thinks about it), nautical activities or heaving, and none of these cats on Youtube seem to have problems with such activities, either. Gratuitous improper use of language is not something he feels should be encouraged by repeated viewing.

A day later, things go as bad as they can possibly go. John doesn’t even need to go out cruising (which Sherlock could somehow thwart) to get a date. He comes back home from work grinning, and the sleuth knows that look on him. “Don’t you think unprofessional to hit on your patients? Or unwise, at least, since they’re clearly carrying some ailment?” he sneers.

“Jeanette is not my patient,” the doctor points out, his smile now morphing in the fond, admiring expression that so often accompanies his flatmate’s deductions.

“Your patient’s relative, then. She might be healthy, but I still find it somehow questionable,” the sleuth huffs.

“If I gave her mom’s a better treatment because of it, certainly. But her mum is, honestly, the more serious case of LOLINAD I ever saw,” John points out, shrugging.

“Sorry?” Sherlock yelps. Has one of them suffered a sudden ictus? Why do John’s word suddenly not make sense?

“Little old lady in no apparent distress,” the doctor explains. “I suspect she was lonely, mostly. You spend so much time at Bart’s that I forgot that you do not know every term of medical slang out there.”

“If I ever heard it I deleted it immediately. After all, I have you for that, should it ever become relevant to a case,” the detective replies, waving away the knowledge.

“True,” John agrees fondly. Whatever happens, Sherlock can always lure him in with cases, and that’s comforting. Sadly, not every time one needs a good murder the criminals of London are obliging. “Anyway,” the blond adds, suddenly hesitant, “I’m going out with her tonight, and I was thinking…if it goes well…I’d like to invite her to our Christmas Eve party too. If that’s okay with you.”

‘Why would you do that to me?’ teen!Sherlock wants to wail, but the detective clamps that down ruthlessly. He knows the proper answer to that. The one that will warrant his reluctant soulmate’s presence at the hateful gathering. “It’s your flat too, John. You’re certainly entitled to inviting whomever you want. Besides, can I point out that this…celebration was your idea in the first place?” he replies, snappier than he probably should be.

“Yeah. But it was to prove a point to you, you great git,” his flat(at least, still)mate quips, and yet again the consulting detective is reminded that John’s insults are actually terms of endearment. No matter how often it happens, the lack of hatred behind them never fails to surprise him, though he’s careful not to let that show on his face. “Anyway, I’m glad it won’t bother you. And she might have previous engagements, so it’s not sure,” his soulmate concludes.

Now, that’s just mean. ‘It won’t bother?’ Of course it bothers Sherlock, and a great deal too. John parading his conquests inside the flat – their flat? Demonstrating to his soulmate all the ways he’s lacking? Of course it hurts. Honestly, the detective would rather be subjected to physical abuse. He’s been in enough fights with criminals to know how to deal with physical pain, how to push past it. This sort of implicit humiliation is more agonizing than any broken bone.

But he can’t complain – he can’t say a word. Implicit humiliation is still better than vocal, loud put down, which would undoubtedly follow his protests. He can ignore the insults – or pretend to – when they come from strangers, idiots, and generally people he can heartily despise in turn.

John, though…no matter how many times he belittles him aloud, truth is that the consulting detective cannot seem to find a flaw on him that is not made absolutely inconsequential when faced with his awesome virtues. Even the specks of cruelty, Sherlock will blame on himself rather than John.

Dangling the chance that it might not happen, after all, is just toying with the sleuth’s feelings. He knows better than that. Of course it will happen. Why would anyone refuse the blond, sex-on-legs doctor’s company?

He deserves it, though. Among other things, because… “I missed your birthday,” Sherlock mumbles mournfully. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m too old to want to celebrate getting older still. I’m almost forty, for God’s sake!” John replies.

The sleuth scrunches his nose. How inexact. There are whole years still. And he’s been robbed of a chance to behave properly and celebrate his soulmate’s existence, and that’s just unfair.

“Besides, you didn’t mention anything about your birthday either,” his blogger points out, shrugging.

“Because it is January 6, and I hadn’t still met you then!” the detective blurts out.

“Oh,” John breathes, sheepish – and the sound does things to Sherlock’s insides that should be illegal.

“Yeah, ‘oh’. I owe you a party now. Tonight?” It’s a long shot, but he’ll attempt practically anything at this point.

“Date, remember?” John’s not unkind, but not so easily swayed, either. Obviously.

“Of course.” The consulting detective is not going to show how disappointed he is. He’s not.

“Don’t wait up,” his blogger adds cheekily, before going to get ready.

“You know I don’t sleep anyways,” the sleuth grumbles. As if he could when his feelings are all over the place. If he spends the whole night playing wailing, mournful violin pieces, it’s nobody’s business.

At dawn, John’s still not there, and Sherlock’s upper body is cramping horribly. He needs a long, hot shower to unwind his aching muscles. Then he’ll go to sleep and hopefully not be conscious when John comes back, to inevitably read the night’s activities off him.

Sherlock sulks the whole of 23 December, falling in one of his spells of silence he warned his flatmate about. John does not pester him, offering just as silently countless cups of tea and some food, which the detective accepts almost in a daze. 

The doctor keeps himself occupied with his blog and the odd chore, inconspicuously keeping an eye on his prone flatmate. Until, at night, he announces – needlessly, because it’s obvious, thank you very much – that he’s going to see her again.

He pats Sherlock’s left shoulder leaving, and it feels like a fiery brand on skin that has not even been touched. If it feels like this with pyjamas and dressing gown through them, how would it be for John to touch his naked flesh when he’s not busy stitching him up or Sherlock is not in agony for some other result of a confrontation with a criminal? No, no, don’t wonder, this way madness lies.

His overreaction must depend on the fact that the soft touch took him off guard. They are comfortable around each other, being far more in each other’s space than any other person not involved in a relationship Sherlock has observed. (Is it a consequence of their soulmate status? A sort of consolation prize for everything else he’s not allowed to have?)

Still, touches between them are usually telegraphed in advance. It’s simply not safe to sneak up physical contact on a former soldier, or a consulting detective with too many enemies gained in his career to count. To tell the truth, at least half the time Sherlock has to instigate touching, with oblique requests that seem to hint only at his own awful laziness. The affectionate caress, especially with the sleuth’s eyes close against the sight of John primping for someone else…that’s new. Why, John? (He can’t ask, but God, he’s going to go mad from all the questions in his head.)

In a desperate bid to get his mind off forbidden alleys,he gets up and decides to find something to do. There’s the hand, of course, but he wanted to keep that for the awful day of John’s absence. He should be able to handle a few hours. Only his feelings are all over the place, bitter and angry and confused and achingly needy, and he needs to vent them somehow. If he was rational, he would immediately see that his plan is at the very least questionable, but in this moment the only thing he can think about is taking revenge on his frustrating flat(soul)mate in the worst way he can.

If you want to hit John Watson, you hit him in his tea. Well, no, he’s not literally going to poison the tea – the sleuth is too British to conceive of such a sin – but getting rid of the necessary milk is as good a passive-aggressive move as any. Pouring it down the drain would be too easy, though, and not soothe the detective’s wounded feelings at all. Turning the bottle in a chlorine bomb is much more satisfying. And it’s not like the neighbours aren’t used to explosions.

Apparently, Mrs. Hudson is tired of damages to her flat, though. She comes up, frowns at the devastation that is the kitchen, tut-tuts at the momentarily deafened and tearing up Sherlock, and disappears. Less than ten minutes later, John is home.

Enraged, yes, frustrated, of course (well, he’s not the only one), muttering against insane flatmates creating fucking bombs in their bloody kitchen (if Sherlock is reading his lips properly, hard to do with his eyes all teary). But even if it is, technically, all the effing madman’s fault (John’s words, again), his hands are so tender. Checking up inflamed eyes, helping Sherlock wash away the sting, airing the kitchen.

“Why didn’t you open the window, Sherlock, are you an idiot? What are you doing sitting in the midst of this devastation?” the blogger huffs, exasperated.

…The consulting detective has no answer for that. Not one he can say at least, because “Going half blind with chemical irritants gave me a proper excuse to have a good cry,” is not something he’s ready to admit. So he just shrugs, as if it doesn’t matter, and it really doesn’t anymore, because even if this wasn’t his aim, John is _home_. He will mutter, and grumble, and when the air is breathable in there clean the kitchen, and the detective will beg milk from Mrs. Hudson tomorrow morning because a John who ditches his second date to run tend to him doesn’t deserve milkless tea.

Bless God, by the morrow (the day of the _party_ – the mere idea makes Sherlock shudder) everything is forgiven and forgotten. Mrs. Hudson clucks her tongue but lets him loan her milk at an ungodly early hour. Since elderlies notoriously do not sleep much, and John has still not overcome the early bird training instilled by the military, it is simply a necessity.

His blogger (he can claim that at least) smiles at him, unused to seeing him up yet unless the sleuth has simply never gone to bed to work on a case. John prepares their breakfast, but Sherlock accepts only a cup of tea, fidgety and staring at the other man intensely all the way. The doctor gives up midway through his own toast. “All right, what’s got you in a state?” he asks.

Uncharacteristically, the consulting detective starts by stating the obvious. “You won’t be here tomorrow.” (He thinks he manages to hide his disappointment, but he can’t be entirely sure.) “And later there is the..celebration you organised, and we’ll have to get things ready.” This time, he doesn’t bother concealing his distaste. “So I was thinking we might exchange gifts _now_?” he concludes, eager like a puppy.

John nods, grinning. The sleuth bolts for his room to retrieve the package, and is followed by the other’s tinkling giggle. It’s not mocking – Sherlock knows everything about expressions of sneer – it’s just pure happiness and a bit of , “Maybe you’re being a tad childish but I miss being a kid too.”

The detective presents the gift proudly, and if there’s maybe a splash of red on his cheekbones, from a mix of nervousness and anticipation, they’re not going to remark on it.

The doctor rips into the package without a care, and then stares silently for a second.

“Not good?” Sherlock asks quietly, and oh God, he’s botched it, why would he ever think it was a good idea, John _hated_ that failed date…

“No. It’s good, Sherlock, really good. I just…didn’t expect it. Neither of us really buy the good-luck charm tripe, after all. But hey, if it works, there’s no place that needs this more than our flat,” his blogger replies, smiling.

‘Of course it doesn’t work, don’t be silly, John,’ he almost retorts, but if he does they’ll have the acknowledge the ‘wife’ angle, and the ‘Did you enjoy the case? Including being kidnapped and almost murdered?’ angle, so maybe it’s better that he shuts up, for once in his life. He doesn’t want to ruin the day.

“So, I guess we have to find a place for Honey,” John ponders aloud.

“Honey?” the detective echoes, puzzled.

“Well, he’s a cat, he’ll need a name, and he’s golden, so…” the doctor explains with a shrug.

Sherlock doesn’t say that it’s a toy, not a cat, and naming toys is for kids. He’s guilty of naming inanimate objects too, after all. He just doesn’t share the names.

John looks around, and then settles. “Ah ah!” he exclaims, setting the cat on the mantle, on the opposite end and somehow complementary to the skull. “Do you think he’ll mind sharing space?”

“Not at all. We share the flat without a fuss, they can share the mantle,” Sherlock assures. Actually, he loves John’s choice. He could have put the thing anywhere, and somehow instinctually he chose the one place that implies a connection between them. His choice of a gift wasn’t a failure, after all.

“Yours, now,” his blogger announce, running to get a shapeless, deep red package. He instinctively tries to deduce it, but there are no shop indications, and while he has an idea of what it might be, some details do not add up…

“Oh, come on, open it!” John prompts, which reminds Sherlock that he’s not with Mycroft, not expected to deduce correctly for the privilege to open it (their games could be rather twisted, from a stranger’s point of view). So he complies, opening it carefully – he’s not a child  anymore – and takes out…a red woollen hood with two brown antlers protruding from it.

“John…that is…” he stammers, just barely swallowing the ‘ghastly’. This is revenge, surely?

The man is smirking at him. “Well, you hated the deerstalker, so I thought a change in hats could be a good idea,” he teases fondly.

“I won’t let the press catch me dead wearing this. I don’t care if it’s the season,” he growls. Mycroft would disown him, for one. Not that it should matter, but…

“Fine, fine, I didn’t ask you to. But you know, it seemed proper. You’ve always reminded me a bit of Rudolph, after all,” John quips.

“What?” the sleuth yelps. How does John even know about uncle Rudy and his love of dress-up? That’s the least thing he thought Mycroft would share.

“Of course you’ve deleted it,” his blogger sighs, and Sherlock is tempted to sigh back – in relief. “No matter – we have a free morning before we need to prepare for the party, and you’re watching the movie with me,” the former army captain announces in his best no-nonsense tone.

The consulting detective doesn’t resist this – of course he can’t – and a look from John is enough to make him wear the hood for the endeavour, with a put-upon sigh. Discovering Rudolph is a literally brilliant reindeer, and apparently that word association was the one John was aiming for from the start, he risks seriously to let it be seen how moved he is by the ridiculous thing.

With the best – or maybe the worst – ever timing in the world, Mrs. Hudson comes up, bringing tea and scones, and sneaks up on that exact moment.       

 

                 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: still not owning a single thing.   
> A.N. A Gravel Gertie is a type of bunker designed to provide containment during the nuclear weapons assembly process, specifically to contain nuclear materials in the event of a catastrophic "low order" detonation of a bomb being serviced. The design specification called for an ability to "sufficiently contain" a 1 kiloton fizzle. (You’ll see why it matters.)

 

John can’t stop smiling. Sherlock has been so compliant all day – really. He expected a stubborn reaction at his proposal to decorate the flat in a seasonal proper way, but apparently the sleuth has elected his flatmate as Chief Party Organizer, and so they’ve mooched some fairy lights and garlands from their landlady (God bless Mrs. Hudson, always), and the detective has spontaneously taken over the chore of putting them up. Without even a single teasing peep about John’s height (or lack thereof).

The doctor, instead, has claimed preparing the refreshments – they don’t want any accidentally poisoned acquaintances. Much less purposefully, should the bored consulting detective decide that willingly entering 221B works as signing a consent form to be experimented on.

When evening comes, Lestrade is the first guest to arrive, apologising with a quip about not having any decent crimes to offer for Christmas. He’s pleasantly surprised to see John there, that much is obvious – there’s a minute relaxing that the boys will later fight over, John already knows. The boffin will argue that the DI was relieved not to have to endure an unchecked sociopath, while his friend will try to point out that Greg is clearly happy that Sherlock has not spent the day all by his lonesome.

Lestrade brings them the Police Academy movies collection. “Cops actually as stupid as you deem us to be,” he explains to an unimpressed sleuth.

The blogger knows that, if things got dire, Greg would probably ditch his wife (in the process of becoming ex-wife, anyway) and make sure Sherlock watched these and got a laugh out of eviscerating them verbally if nothing else instead of moping all day. God bless him and his staunch, mostly unacknowledged friendship when John couldn’t – by way of not knowing him yet or being otherwise busy – be there for the world’s only consulting detective.

The DI accepts a drink and his gift with a smile, admitting it might come in handy. Sherlock sends John a smug look that clearly says, “See? I was right. Told you so.”

The doctor offers a tiny, lopsided smile back, conceding that obviously the man is always right – even though they know it is not true.

Well, to be perfectly honest saying Greg has been their first guest is a lie – but Mrs. Hudson is not a guest as much as family, even for John, and she’s always up and down the stairs, despite her hip, to look after them. John might have taken over the refreshments, but the baked goods are out of his competence, and when he mentioned buying some, their landlady tutted in mock outrage and declared that no industrial sweets would contaminate her house.

Sherlock is smiling, relaxed, and his happiness is simply contagious…until Jeanette arrives. She kisses John’s lips as he greets her, and he blushes, mostly because of his landlady’s silent glare. What’s the matter with the dear old woman, anyway? He’s told her there’s nothing between him and Sherlock until he’s gone hoarse.

His girlfriend smiles at everyone, despite the polite but somehow less than warm welcome. Thank God for Greg who’s the most normal of everyone in the room. Perhaps because of the slight awkwardness, she hugs him and invites him to ditch this so called party later tonight to go dancing… and one does not need to be a consulting detective to deduce that she does not mean to do it only vertically.

John agrees eagerly, Sherlock is probably not going to wish for the party to continue till the wee hours of the night, and after being cockblocked just yesterday there’s no reason not to accept. The betrayed look the sleuth levels at him surprises him. It’s so quick that the doctor would miss it if his eyes weren’t lured back to his flatmate all the time, even with his arms full of enticing girlfriend. John refuses to be guilted into changing his decision, though.

This is supposed to be the cheer-Sherlock-up party, however. Since his silly, silly flatmate refused to tell him in advance that yes, he would like very much if John kept his provisional girlfriend away from the revelry, the blond has to take quick action to remove, if only for a minute, the offending guest. And why did he think provisional just now? That’s not a good mindset, John, stop it, he mentally scolds himself.

Instead, he sings the praises of Mrs. Hudson’s baking and prompts Jeanette to taste it, which requires her moving to the kitchen, where the feast is laid out. She smiles and agrees…and then turns, with a puzzled raised eyebrow, when he makes no move to follow her, but he affects being too comfortable where he is and just waves her away, blowing her a kiss. She turns and marches into the kitchen, head held high and annoyance visible, but he’ll patch things with her later. He’s confident that he can seduce her on the dance floor.

Immediately, he turns to Sherlock with a request for him to play, because he’s learned months ago that a bit of ego-stroking will do marvels to get his friend out of the dumps, and he needs an excuse to heap praise on him. His music is certain to offer him the occasion.

Mrs. Hudson joins in, going so far as to request a Christmas carol, and for a moment John worries this will upset their artist. God knows that Sherlock’s music follows only his mercurial moods, with no regard to the comfort of anyone else, and when he does play actual songs it’s usually classical pieces, not holidays junk. But he’s underestimated how fond his friend is of their landlady – or how far he’s willing to go to ensure she’ll forgive him a million disturbances – because their private violinist takes the bow with a flourish and executes a perfect rendition of the piece.

Nobody dares to breath, much less talk, during the music. The detective has everyone spellbound, and John can’t help but look at him fondly and ponder that his flatmate might have missed his calling. Any orchestra would be honoured to make him first violin, certainly. Then again, he smiles to himself, not many professional orchestras work at 3 AM. And Sherlock is saving lives by helping to put criminals behind bars. It is certainly better for the world that he picked his career as consulting detective. Still, what a loss for the arts. The blogger can’t help but feel keenly privileged to be in their very selected public.

When the song ends, and the violinist offers a bow that would not be out of place on any stage, John is not the only one singing his praises. Of course he isn’t – anyone with ears can’t help from acclaiming such prowess. The blogger half expects the married ones next door to knock wishing to offer their applause.

Sherlock’s eyes shine with happiness now, and the knot that his pain tightened in John’s stomach loosens. Mission accomplished. Mrs. Hudson quips about the antlers, and the detective replies in good humour. Honestly, his blogger is happy that the sleuth took his gift off before the party. Sharing with him something that his friend won’t allow anyone else to see (but Mrs. H., and she’s practically family) makes him feel special.

Jeanette comes back from the kitchen, apparently having decided that she’s not letting the situation irritate her beyond measure. Honestly, John is baffled that she didn’t wander back in immediately after the consulting detective started playing, like animals and even plants followed Orpheus in the myth. Maybe he has annoyed her more than he suspected.

She brings a peace offering, though. A platter full of Mrs. Hudson’s delicacies, and a smile painted on her lips. But of course, things aren’t so easy. When she offers it to Sherlock, he doesn’t just refuse. He refuses by calling her the wrong name. Better yet, calling her the name of the first girlfriend John had since he lives in 221b.

The doctor tries to diffuse the situation, but the sleuth won’t be so easily deterred. Is he consciously trying to piss Jeanette off? With the way the git seems to be unaware of the most basic social cues, and at other time manages to manipulate flawlessly people into doing whatever he wants, John has still not figured out if and when his flatmate’s rudeness is totally deliberate or not…and probably never will, to be honest.

Offering Jeanette the full list of John’s lovers in the past year, Leporello style (they agreed that Sherlock would endure John subjecting him to pop culture education if he could reciprocate with classical music trivia), is bad enough. Mentioning them not by name but invariably by some flaw leaves her with no possible doubt about the sleuth’s opinion of her and all her precursors. Only John knows that apparently the detective hates her more than any of the rest. Boring is the most severe invective in the man’s book.

Implying that she certainly won’t last long is the last straw for her. John is tempted to tell her to consider him one of her unruly children – as a teacher, she must be used to dealing with them. She can’t exactly give him a demerit, though.

Thank God that the awkwardness is broken by a new arrival. Molly is, simply put, gorgeous like that. John notices, even if he shouldn’t, and God knows that Greg notices too – he’s practically picking his jaw from the floor. The only one who does not seem to deem the getup worth of an appreciative smile or a lingering look is Sherlock. Of course, he’s too busy flirting with Irene these days, but still…poor Molly.                                  

Apparently the sleuth has decided that the earlier concert means that he’s done his part to be involved in the general merriment, and he’s escaping from the situation by checking John’s blog. As if the number of readers – recorded or not – might prove something. True, the doctor has dangled his wider public in front of him when Sherlock was particularly annoying, a couple of times – or twenty.

But the point of today is proving that people enjoy his company. If he hides behind a screen it’s hard to do that. The consulting toddler is determined to be cranky, though, and is clearly searching for any excuse to complain. Maybe John should have been smart and told him to invite Irene, too. But to be honest, he’d very much prefer not to have to watch the two bloody geniuses flirt.

The blogger can even shrug off the detective’s protest against publishing his hat photo (it’s everywhere, it’s not like he’s divulged some embarrassing secret), but when Sherlock chides Molly for her open-mouth-insert-foot routine, well, that’s rich. John’s glare clearly says, “Pot. Kettle. Black,” but berating him publicly is _not_ on today’s agenda.

He doesn’t need to defend Molly, though, because she can do that herself. She immediately lets accidentally drop how the consulting detective has been moaning to her about his flatmate’s upcoming absence. True, the man’s glower cowers her into correcting her choice of verb, but the truth is out.

And no, John refuses to be guilted into changing plans. Harry’s finally off the booze, and she needs his support now. She needs to be encouraged, and praised, and helped – and there’s simply _no way_ that Sherlock is correct deducing that she’s insincere when she claims she’s clean simply by the tinny voice he could hear over John’s mobile phone. The conversation wasn’t even on loudspeaker, for God’s sake, and if the consulting detective’s sense weren’t the keenest in the universe, as well as his mind, he shouldn’t even have heard it. What data can the man glean from that? He’s bullshitting, certainly.

Thinking they’ve just teased each other and can put that behind themselves, Molly moves to properly greet her crush and give him a gift. But none of them has realized exactly how much the party itself, or John’s looming absence, or maybe Jeanette’s presence (in a word, John – it’s all his fault, for making things worse when he was trying to cheer the man up) have riled up the consulting detective.

Clearly, Sherlock is not done venting. He tears into poor Molly, deducing her to an inch of her life… that’s really meaner than he usually is, and everyone in the room, besides Jeanette, who doesn’t know poor Molls at all, cringes inwardly.

The doctor is tempted to cut in, say anything to stop him, but he keeps silent. He knows the sleuth enough to realize that any attempt to stop him now will only make him go on in a louder voice. When his friend gets like that, he’s like a freight train. You cannot stop him without explosives. To everyone’s surprise, the sleuth’s voice suddenly tapers out, just after his most vicious insinuation. John knows that look on him. It’s a mix of ‘Oh shit’ and ‘I missed something!’.

Only he can’t have missed that, can he? He’s manipulated Molly using her crush on him more than once, for God’s sake. Don’t tell him…he’s deleted it? But it would make no sense. He still needs Molly’s cooperation. He wouldn’t delete the best way to persuade her. (Unless he decided to delete it because John somehow persuaded him that Molly is a friend, so he thinks he doesn’t need to manipulate her. Anyway, this disaster is really John’s fault.)

To John’s shock, Sherlock immediately apologises. So he didn’t mean to hurt her. At least, not that much. Does he know how awful it is to be sneered at by your crush for your infatuation? Surely not, right? After all, Irene is very much open to whatever he wants, and before…well, who would be stupid enough to reject him? Just look!

Yeah, yeah, people keep insinuating that the detective never had friends, but this has nothing to do with romantic/sexual relationships. Someone as gorgeous and brilliant as him must have been hit on all the time. He wasn’t married to his work in his teen years, was he? Sherlock can have anyone he wants. He just has to wink.

The doctor’s synapses can fire in a flash too, if not as hastily as the sleuth’s, because all these thoughts take no more than a second. And then…as if the day hasn’t been awkward enough…another fucking text comes. And adjective has never been more proper.

Of course, their guests are aghasts, but the consulting detective waves it away. As if it’s nothing. It’s not nothing, very much not, and John blurts out the figure. 57. Sherlock had fifty bloody seven chances to change his texts ringtone, but he didn’t. So there’s no way he can be casual about it. He’s doing it because it gets him hard or because he likes making people uncomfortable – or both. Personally, John would bet on both. Neither of these options are acceptable behaviour in polite company. Once again, the blogger has to curb the urge to explode in a furious ranting.         

With a quip that seems spiteful but actually confirms that the consulting detective likes riling him up (yeah, he’s counting, of course he’s counting!), his friend takes a gift that nobody has put on their mantelpiece and flees to his room. Way to fail a day. Sherlock just ran away from his ‘friends’, and someone sneaked in their home and left things around – they might have as well left a bomb. Well, they know who, and she’s fucking dangerous and possibly insane, who drugs people without a second thought like that?

John’s hairs stand on end – Moriarty has invaded the basement, but now their own flat has been violated, and even if his flatmate might love the idea of the Woman letting herself in and doing whatever she pleases, John is actually considering changing the locks.

He tries to discuss Sherlock’s relationship with the dominatrix with him, but the madman locks himself in his room – and everyone else, John included, out. Brilliant. Just brilliant. He cares about his friend. He’s concerned about him. God knows John has bedded a few inadvisable girls, but he eventually dumped them. And more than once, friends opened his besotted eyes. If he can’t even play his part as the detective’s friend, what good is he?

It’s the phone. The bloody phone that started all this trouble. The phone Irene had drugged him to recover. The one she declared – loudly and repeatedly – was her life. Sherlock might make mistakes sometimes. Overlook details. But he knows what it means when you casually put your life in the hands of a stranger. Especially a stranger that does not necessarily have your best interest at heart.

You’ve already given up on it. You don’t care whether you live or die. Hell, you’re probably hoping for the latter. And with the people Irene has after her, it’s likely that her wish will come true. Hers isn’t a proper goodbye text, but he can read through, “ _There’s a gift for you on the mantel. Sorry about dinner._ ” Hell, John could too, if he showed it to him.

He can’t help but be disappointed. She was his expert in hurting one’s partner for pleasure, and now she’s gone. He’ll never get to have a serious conversation about what, and why, and what ifs, and so on. True, there are dozens of her colleagues that would take his money and talk his ears off if he asked.

But Mycroft sent him to her door. Nobody would have questioned why they met. If he looked for someone else, Mycroft would know (he knows everything, always), and possibly John would know – oh God please no – and questions would be asked. He might be thirty, but people can’t just stay out of his effing business.

If she didn’t try to goad him into sex with her almost-harassment (how many times does one need to ignore unwanted avances for the other party to get it? Fifty-seven, apparently), they might have enlightened one another. What a waste.

Well, at least one person is going to be relieved. Happy, even, if the annoying git is capable of such a feeling. The least he can do is inform his brother of the threat’s demise. Of course, the call is not pleasant. They have dispensed with the niceties of ‘family’ long ago, so Mycroft knows this is either work-related or Sherlock is in a bad place (one awful enough to make him reach for help), or possibly both. Still, his brother can’t help but be sassy. It’s their own way to lighten the mood, but right now, it’s not what he wants to hear.

The sleuth doesn’t realise that what he wants (needs) to hear is John – apparently the man loitered at his door – softly asking, “You okay?” Or anyone asking it, really. Someone caring about him. Yes, these people have agreed to come, celebrate with him, but when he ignored them and hid away, they were quite happy to ignore him and keep getting drunk.

Then again, it’s not like he answers well to anyone’s caring, is it? He’s curt and snappy at his concerned flat(soul)mate. But the man has his…paramour in the fucking room. Why is he concerned about any texts Sherlock might or might not be getting, or how they make him feel? How anything makes him feel? It’s a contradiction, and honestly, quite frustrating.            

Half an hour later – he’s holed himself in his room, and everyone has left him be…probably enjoying his absence, at that – Mrs. Hudson knocks on his door. He wants to yell at her to go away, but she might be upset, or she might decide he needs a lecture (she’s way more like his mummy that any landlady, or former client, or really any human being has any right to be).

So he opens the door – just a crack – and glares ineffectually at her. Going by her healthy flush, she’s not laid off since before. Someone might want to accompany her down to her flat when she finally retires, lest she stumble on the stairs.

“Your brother is here, Sherlock! Come out and wish him a happy Christmas, at least,” she announces.

Oh God. As if the day hadn’t been bad enough until now. What does Mycroft need? He should be celebrating the good news by gorging himself.

Before he can shut the door on her face, his brother appears behind her, murmuring, “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, but I’m not here for the seasonal greetings. I need you, Sherlock.” It’s a shocking admission – usually his smug brother likes to pretend that _he_ ’s doing _the sleuth_ a favour by requesting his assistance. Without thinking, the detective opens his room’s door entirely.

“Thoughtful of you, but your assistance is required in the field, brother mine. You’ll have to make your excuses and leave the party, I’m afraid,” the British government explains, nodding at him to come out.

What might have prompted this? Not that he’s against leaving, it’s actually a relief, and now he will look like the busy consulting detective rather than the sociopathic nutjob at least. Not that his brother would ever rescuing him from merely being uncomfortable in his own home. But the Irene matter is closed. Is it possible that their inept politicians have got into another spot of trouble requiring his assistance when the royal scandal has just vanished? How are they picked out, honestly?

John asks if he might be of assistance, his girlfriend glaring darkly at him, but Sherlock waves him away. The man can enjoy the party he’s wanted to organise…and the rest of his evening. Dancing (does John even know how to dance? Why has he never showed off this talent in his presence), fucking, whatever. The sleuth doesn’t want to know. He has another case to solve. Whether it is Mycroft’s twisted version of a Christmas gift, getting him more work, or particularly lucky (for him) timing by a spy or terrorist, it doesn’t matter, ultimately.

It is an extra gift from Irene, instead. The Woman got herself so horribly bashed in the head that they are pulling him in to identify her. He supposes asking her illustrious client would have been too awkward, if probably more effective.

To his surprise, there’s Molly in the morgue. She’s changed out of the elegant dress, opting for a Christmassy jumper (looking for the comfort of the embrace of the soft wool?) and is even more mousey than usually. At least, this last deduction he doesn’t voice aloud. There’s no need. Mycroft sees as much, too – probably even more.

Kindly (at least he hopes – John has made him discover that his idea of kindness can be a bit…skewed), he tells her that she shouldn’t have come to work. They’re probably not even acknowledging her overtime. She could be drinking away the sorrow he caused, pulling someone to prove that she’s perfect and desirable (if one is inclined towards women, the sleuth supposes she could be), marathoning silly TV shows, or whatever else people do to make themselves feel better. Not going to work and face the clueless idiot who just humiliated you in public.

Quietly, she points out the holiday, implying that other people are too busy being happy with friends, family or whatever the day implies, while she, feeling already miserable (thanks so much, Sherlock!) would not be annoyed by having to leave her activities. He’s already told her he’s sorry once. He’s not going to repeat it in front of his brother.

Given the status of the dead woman’s face, Sherlock asks curtly to see the rest of her. The quicker this ends, the happier every one of the people present will be. The pathologist startles at this, but complies. The consulting detective assures his brother that it’s her. The body measurements match.

It’s unlikely that he’ll ever forget them. The burst of panic he felt when the CIA men threatened to shoot John have branded that moment into him, and while he would want nothing more than delete this whole Adler fiasco entirely, facts involving John in any way are carefully collected. Even if it is irrational, he’s loath to forget anything about his soulmate.

But is it truly irrational? Horribly sentimental? Can’t he justify himself with the need to hold all the data necessary to solve the conundrum of the man’s contradictory behaviour? If he hates being Sherlock’s soulmate, if he wants nothing more than find someone else to spend his life with, why does he stay? Even admitting that his blogger might like to be involved in cases because of his adrenaline addiction, who’s forcing him to live with Sherlock when it entails body parts in the fridge? He didn’t even take Mycroft’s money! Is it only because of the low rent? Would John put up with him only for the pleasure to live in central London?

He’s derailed from his own pondering by Molly’s urgent whisper. He doesn’t exactly mean to pay attention. But he’s still there, and she knows, so it’s not eavesdropping. He quickens his pace, rushed by the surge of annoyance he can’t help but to feel. She’s questioning why and how he can recognise the cadaver from her body? Fine, she has a crush on him, that’s established. But does she feel like she has the right to question his actions, or be jealous? He has never promised het anything.  

By all means, she should rejoice. Even assuming that the Woman was a rival – and that demonstrates a rather worrying lack of imagination in someone who’s supposed to determine cause of death, there are at least five options for him to see Irene naked off the top of his head – she’s a dead rival. Isn’t that the best kind?

He would like to see Molly deal with what he’s going through, day in day out, having a parade of people, very much alive and breathing, and talking and _kissing_ , that the man you love has absolutely zero compunction to introduce to you and gleefully disclose his intention to ‘get a leg over’ with.

Yes, he’s been abominable to her today – the only reason he doesn’t chastise the pathologist now about minding her own business – but even meek doctor Hooper might lash out at any convenient target if tormented long enough, he suspects.   

After all this time, his brother can still surprise him. Mycroft offers him a cigarette. For all that the man smokes too (how do you think Sherlock started?), which makes him an insufferably hypocrite – regular Mycroft, then – he’s always tried his level best to keep his little brother away from all and any addictive substances.

There must be a trap behind. Some sort of catch. But hey, the sleuth is not so stubborn as to refuse free tobacco – especially now that John is not around to look disappointed about it. And yet, just the thought of his soulmate’s disgruntled face is enough to make him almost sick, draining the pleasure of sweet, sweet nicotine.

He looks for an excuse _not_ to indulge, and if that isn’t a sign he’s utterly messed up, he doesn’t know what it is. He would rather please his soulmate, who isn’t even effing present, than satisfy his cravings with a proper cigarette instead of a number of patches. The man is the ruin of him…or the salvation, maybe. Cigarettes are bad for your health, aren’t they?

Anyway, they’re in a hospital, he realises suddenly. He’s pretty sure smoking inside one is frowned upon. Maybe he can get out of taking it and go back home, tell John and be praised by him? …Oh, right. John won’t be home. He’ll be dancing with tart number…what is it, ten? twelve? And the corpses won’t really have adverse effects from passive smoking, as his smarter brother points out. Fuck it all (not that he says it aloud), he’s smoking. Blissful nicotine in his lungs.

Despite the unexpected indulgence, of course his brother wants the details of the case. And just because, Sherlock refuses to disclose them all. His brother wants the mobile phone? He can wait a while. He shouldn’t suspect him of all people to intend to continue the power play/probable blackmail with the royal family. But he wants to get into the phone and see the files it contains on his own. He never managed to have that hopefully enlightening conversation with Miss Adler. Maybe he can deduce what he needs from the images of her sessions.

So, instead, he changes subject. Well, not much. Not from the matter he’s obsessed over for months. The fact that circumstances give him a pretext to ask is lucky chance. “They’re being so loud when it’s clear that the parents weren’t soulmates – there isn’t another death looming close, or having to fend for themselves, or anything,” he says quietly, mentioning the huddled family who’s vehemently mourning the dead father. “They simply care for him – that much. Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us?” After all, his big brother always claimed to know better. Maybe he has the answer to this, too. Sherlock is desperate enough to seek any insight, at this point. 

The reply is haughty, sententious, typical Mycroft…and completely misses the point. No, the sleuth isn’t asking if they’re defective because they do not care as much (God knows he cares, even if he’s trained himself out of showing it), he’s asking what’s effing wrong with them that nobody finds them worthy enough to care for! People who could be friends hate his guts, and his soulmate can’t bring himself to go beyond friendship – and he denies even that (case in point: with Wilkes). As for Mycroft, the fact that his brother’s favourite haunt enforces silence is the only clue you need to determine how friendly and caring his relationships are. Somehow, he doesn’t seem troubled by this, unlike the sleuth. (How can he not be?)

Disgusted by everything – the lack of much-needed insight, the fact that he gave into addiction, if the milder of his long list, the fact that John won’t be angry at him for it because he’ll be busy having sex with whomever her name was – he complains. Not about any of that, obviously. About the quality of his cigarette. If Mycroft had to make him fall into temptation, the least he could do was provide high quality tobacco. Low tar isn’t worth breaking his good record for.

But apparently, he didn’t know Miss Adler well enough to deserve a decent smoke. Well, if – according to his brother’s skewed morals – he needs the death of someone close to him to deserve a proper one, he’d stick to patches, thank you very much. Not worth it.

To close the conversation, and give Mycroft no chance to get back to talking about the case, he stalks away, throwing his way a casual, seasonal good wish.

His brother replies with another – out of pure reflex, the sleuth suspects…but he lets him go. Apparently Mycroft’s Christmas gift is to let him have the phone until the British government truly needs it. Good enough.

To his surprise, John is home. The sleuth ruthlessly squashes down the enthusiastic cheers by his teen self. Why is John home? A quick look is enough to tell. Whatever little dust survived the party arrangement is gone. There’s been an utterly thorough search here. _Mycroft_ , he deduces bitterly. John might not be on his payroll, but his brother would know how to play up on his doctorly instincts. And indeed, the first words out of his flat(soul) mate’s mouth, beyond the greeting, are, “You okay?”

Why wouldn’t he be? It’s not like he cared for the woman. Does John think he does? Exactly how blind can the man be? He’s more likely to relapse because of his blogger (that, at least)’s line-up of girlfriends that because of Irene’s passing.

He grumbles something about his sock index before slamming the door to his bedroom…only to open it ten minutes later. “It’s perfect,” he announces, puzzled. “How did you learn?” _Why_ , is the thing he doesn’t dare ask.

“I didn’t,” John replies, shrugging. “But I remember you moaning for a whole afternoon when last month – after doing _your_ laundry, I should add, which I’m not grumbling about because we ended up both in the Thames and washing things separately seemed like a waste of water – I thought I’d be kind and put it away for you. You obviously care about it, though, so I had Mrs. Hudson look it over – she’s more likely to recognise subtle shades of colour and percentages in mixed fabrics. Glad to hear she managed.”

Without really meaning to, Sherlock huffs a laugh. “Oh John, Mrs. Hudson is more likely to refill my drugs’ stash than confiscate it. Well, maybe not with cocaine, she’s been very clear on that, but still…”

“Ssssh! We don’t talk about Mrs. Hudson’s ‘soothers’. It’s a se-cret. Like about my gun. And anyway, you would never ask her for some,” the doctor replies in a hushed tone, but with exaggerate air quotes.

“John? I know you drank a bit tonight, but are you sure that you are not that one who partook of recreational substances tonight” the detective queries, frowning. True, it’s not John’s style, but…

John shakes his head. “I am _terribly_ sober, for an after-party. I just wanted to make you laugh again. God knows I need a good laugh now.”

Sherlock looks him over, paying attention this time. “Oh. She dumped you, didn’t she? What did I do?” he queries, sighing.

“Why would you be involved at all?” his blogger challenges, but he’s not denying it yet.

“It seems I always spell the doom of your relationships somehow, John. I don’t mean to,” the consulting detective counters quietly. Not that he doesn’t enjoy his soulmate being single, but what he means – what he can’t voice – is, “please don’t hate me”.

“Well, I refuse to pin this on you,” John declares – which means it _could_ be. “This breakup is on her for being an idiot…and on me. I forgot that she didn’t have a dog.” He laughs at his own foolishness, and Sherlock joins him. The day just became tolerable.

“Maybe I should teach you to build a mind palace,” he offers.

“Let’s not get ambitious. I’d be happy with a mind bunker,” his blogger quips. After a few seconds of consideration, he adds, grinning, “Rather, given the life we lead, let’s make it a Gravel Gertie.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: still not owning anything.

The following morning it’s Christmas, and John should have left for Harry’s home about a hour ago. But he can’t make himself leave. Yes, yesterday ended in a light-hearted tone, but he’s learned long ago what a marvellous actor Sherlock can be when he wants. It remains that his flatmate did see his (beloved? crush? Fascinating enemy? What the ever-loving fuck?)’s dead body. And even if this trip has been planned for a long time, John is loath to leave without having seen his friend – checked on him, if you want.

Sherlock, unless he’s been sleepless for days because of a case, is usually up by now (well, bit earlier, actually), and the doubt that he might be sulking in his room and waiting to hear John’s departure so he’ll be able to (to what? Here is the crux, really) has been detaining the doctor for the last hour. He doesn’t want to leave without saying goodbye – without knowing that it is safe to do so. 

Reaching a compromise, he prepares a cup of tea, and a toast with honey. Most times, Sherlock is not really up to beans, eggs or other hearty foods freshly awakened, which the sleuth blames on a supposed French heritage, but the doctor suspects is just a result of sweet tooth. For all his quips about Mycroft’s partiality for food, the younger Holmes does have a considerable fondness for sugary treats.

John lays it all on a tray and enters Sherlock’s room after knocking, but without awaiting permission. It’s a bet, true. The covers are up well past the curls, which means his flatmate _is_ sulking. Even in the dead of winter, nobody sleeps like that. “I come bringing peace offerings,” he announces softly.

The curls emerge, but it’s still the back of the sleuth’s head towards him. But at least the great toddler has his nose out and won’t suffocate. “Shouldn’t you be gone already?” the detective mumbles sourly.

“I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye,” the doctor admits. It’s the truth. The naked truth – if at all acceptable to disclose – is always the better option when talking to him.

“You said it. Now go,” the consulting detective orders callously. Well, though luck, mister. If John Watson let himself be pushed around this way, he’d have moved out after Donovan’s first warning.

“If you need me to…” the blogger offers, in the same level, kind voice.

This time Sherlock turns towards him, which should count as a progress, but he does so only to glare angrily. But angry at what? “I’m not broken,” he growls. Oh, that. “And you can go and bring your nursing instincts were they’re more needed if, I suspect, not more wanted. Shoo, John. If you have to go, just go. I’m not going to shoot up today, if it’s what you’re worried about. You and Mycroft should really know better.” Is he angry at John for listening to Mycroft’s concerns, too? Well, they both care for him. Is that so hard to understand?

 “Fine. I’m going, then. I’ll be back…well, that depends. Late tonight or tomorrow morning, depending on how much nursing Harry’s going to need. Goodbye, Sherlock,” the doctor says, turning to leave, ‘peace offerings’ and all. If his flatmate wants to be a git, he can walk to the kitchen for it.

“Leave the tray.” There’s no please, and it is worded like an order, but the consulting detective’s voice is small.

John hides a smile – thank God he has his back to the man – and lays the tray on the bedside table. No matter the amount of sulking, his friend won’t go entirely without food today. It’s a relief, despite the sleuth doing his outmost to be a jerk.            

Christmas with Harry goes as well as one might imagine. There’s a reason John would have rather survived in a shitty, microscopic bedsit than live with her, and believe me, it has nothing to do with male pride. She starts harping at him as soon as she sees him. “You’ve never cared for me, have you, Johnny?” God, he hates when she calls him Johnny, and she knows it all too well.

And yes, it’s petty, and he should know better than do that, but he still replies, “You know I do love you, Harriet.”

She scrunches her nose, just like him, and that means she’s already oh-so-angry. They’ve both inherited that twitch from dad, and the best thing you can do, when you spot it, is to duck and start grovelling. The problem is that John doesn’t feel like apologising now, and he can be stubborn as a mule in his own right.

“What did you call me?” his sister hisses. Another thing they’ve learned at home – angry yells mean nothing. It’s angry whispers you really have to fear.

“Come on, Harry, you started it. You know I hate that nickname. And I really mean that, by the way. I do love you. I’m sorry I’m late, but I was worried about Sherlock…” he explains, placating.

She sniffles. “Oh – of course. Never mind that you never call, that I’ve been slaving around trying to make everything perfect. I’m just your flesh and blood. What does it matter when your precious soulmate needs you. What was it this time? A paper cut?” Harry whines bitterly.

John sighs deeply. “For the last time, Harry, Sherlock is _not_ my soulmate. He’s a puzzling, brilliant madman of a friend and flatmate…who told me outright that *his* soulmate is deceased. Do I look dead to you, sis?” He _felt_ dead for a while… in that awful interim between being discharged and finding Sherlock, actually…but he’s pretty sure _contemplating_ death would not erase the soul mark from someone’s partner wrist.

His sister snorts incredulously. “Not your soulmate. Of course. Keep telling yourself that, if it helps you sleep at night. What I want to know is, whose fault is it that you won’t accept the truth? Dad’s? _He_ ’s really and truly dead, and can’t flip shit because Sherlock is a lad like he did for me and Clara. Or…oh, no, I got it!”

She looks at him gleefully, and the doctor knows that whatever will come from her mouth now will be cruel and baseless and make a surprising amount of sense at first thought. Maybe he should ask the detective how to delete things too, when (well, if) they start mind bunker lessons. Whatever she’s about to say, it would really be best erased from his mind.

“He’s _told_ you his soulmate is dead. But he hasn’t showed you, has he? You’ve not seen a name blob? Oh my! He doesn’t _want_ you, baby brother. Too damaged for your own soulmate to accept you? Ouch. At least _I_ can pretend Clara was a homonym…Though you know, sometimes I wonder.” There. Her cruel streak mixes with an apparent astounding amount of logic. But she’s never right. Never.

Luckily, he finds the weak point in her reasoning immediately. Bless his flatmate for being an incurable asshole. “That simply isn’t possible, Harry. There’s no way that he would lie…why would he? To spare my feelings? You don’t know him. He’s never told a _white_ lie in his life, I’d bet my life on it. If you were right, after we met – in the first three minutes or so – he’d say, ‘You’re my soulmate. Don’t start getting ideas now. You’re not up to par, and I don’t do relationships anyway. Moving on from that – you can still be my flatmate, if you want.’ And probably not winked, yeah.”

That was a pretty good imitation of the consulting detective’s usual deduction tone, if he said so himself, but apparently Harry hears only the first word. “He _winked_ at you?” Her furiously raising left eyebrow says clearly, “And you’re still denying your bond? Are you kidding me?”

“Only once, and to be honest, it was more…weird that anything. Sometimes I suspect he just got something in his eye,” her brother explains hurriedly.

“Yeah sure. Really, how many lies do you need to build not to face the truth, awful as it might be?” she growls, clearly too happy with her pick of adjective. “S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K and John, not sitting in a tree for some reason…but you can’t tell me he’s not the one,” she singsonged.

“He might be a homonym,” her brother stubbornly insisted. “We’re fucking billions in the world, Harry. You can’t be sure that even the most absurd name is truly unique.”

“You fucked billions of people? Maybe that’s because he doesn’t want you. Wouldn’t want to catch some STD,” Harry mocks, making a face.

“That fucking wasn’t what I fucking meant and you fucking know it,” John growls. Why is it that he can soothe clients and patients and be polite all day long, take Sherlock’s insults in stride, but one obvious joke from his sister and he loses all composure?

“Geez, calm down, Jay,” she huffs, using the one nickname from their childhood that didn’t drive John round the bend. “Fine, I’ll stop, I think I milked it out enough anyway, and honestly, your situation is sadder than mine, so ta for that. I needed you to cheer me up. And now, I’ll feed you a proper Christmas luncheon, so you’ll cheer up too, won’t you? You’re always temperamental when you’re hungry.”

John breaths deeply, trying to rein himself in. He’d like to refute her claim, and really, he’s not being ‘temperamental’ now, but as a general statement, it’s true. Not that he holds much faith in his sister’s cooking prowess, but then again, he eats anything.

He’s pleasantly surprised by the fact that there is indeed food. Lots of food. Very tasty food. None of their ma’s traditional dishes, though. Whether it depends on Harry not wanting to be reminded of home or not having dared to ask her for the recipes while she was alive, John can’t help the stab of sadness. He chases that away with more food. He makes sure to praise her cooking ability plenty, until – just before dessert – his sister starts irrepressibly giggling, until there are literal tears in her eyes. “Got you, Jay,” she quips.

Harry leads him to the kitchen – she’d strictly refused any help until now – and shows him the cartons. Everything has been bought. Well, now that puts a different spin on the lack of ma’s cooking. “Did you really think I could do all that? You’re so gullible,” she teases, still snickering.

John smiles back. “Well, then thank you, Harry. I appreciate you not attempting to cook. I get enough hopefully accidental food poisoning from my flatmate,” he quips. That’s actually proof that Harry’s wrong and Sherlock is really a homonym, isn’t it? Who in their right mind gives dubious substances (he’s rather suspicious about how accidental some of these instances have been) to their soulmate? Then again, he’s dubbed Sherlock ‘the madman’ since clapping eyes on him… No, no. He knows how things are, and he doesn’t need to let his sister’s teasing influence him. 

“I tricked you! This calls for a toast, don’t you think?” she crows, gleeful.

He can see her point. Despite being two years younger, he’s always been acknowledged as the smarter of the two. Case in point: they’re both reckless at heart, but John managed to find government-approved, and even praised, ways to get his adrenaline kick – war and Sherlock. Mycroft allowing him as a flatmate means that his civilian high-risk behaviour are, if possible, even more sanctioned by the government than his stint in Afghanistan. Harry instead never outgrew her wild teen years’ rebellious attitude, and ended up falling into addiction.

So yeah, fooling the smart one of the family is worth celebrating. But… “A toast, of course, if you want. Let me make a bit of eggnog?” he queries.

She glares at him. “So you can prepare the non-alcoholic version? What am I, a child? John, you should know better than that. It’s a great day! This calls for champagne!” She opens the freezer, where a double magnum bottle is resting. It might be worth to point out that there are no other guests.

“Harry, please…” John entreats. She’d done so well, been sober when he arrived (or at least sober from enough that her dependence wasn’t obvious) and even not put any wine on the table through the meal. More specks of the ‘fooling John’ plan, he supposes. But why? 

“You don’t get to do it, John Hamish Watson,” she hisses venomously. “You don’t get to tell me how I should live my fucking life!”

“I only want you to be healthy,” her brother pleads. Being harsh has never had any effect on Harry, if not make her more stubbornly determined to persevere. That was true for anyone in the Watson family, to be fair.

“Said the man who went to get shot at,” Harry rebukes, holding the bottle tightly next to her breast, as if afraid that John might attempt to rip it from her hand. He wouldn’t – the only result would be lots of glass fragments (there’s no way to pry it out of her hands without breaking it) and a puddle of alcohol…Possibly even Harry lapping it from the floor, heedless of the shards. It happened once, and the doctor never wants to go through that again.

“Not my brightest moment, I’ll admit,” he says instead, hoping that agreeing with her will appease his sister. “You’ve proved that you’re smarter than me today, Harry. Don’t belie that.”

“Do you really think I’d fall for these stupid psychological tricks?” she growls, trying to loom over him. Not that any of them can do that very well. Silly genetics. She should know that John is not one to be intimidated, though.

“I hoped that you might show a modicum of common sense and self-preservation, sister dear. This is going to kill you eventually. And if you are determined to hurt yourself, at least I won’t stay to watch you go through with it,” he huffs.

“You always think you know better than anyone!” Harry complains, her voice a high-pitched whine.

“I am a doctor, sis. There are a million studies on the effects of alcohol’s excessive drinking on the liver and the other organs. So yes, in this regard I do know better than you. I would help you if you were willing to stop, Harry, but you won’t even admit you have a problem!” he blurts out, exasperated.

“Because I want a toast on Christmas? You’re ridiculous!” his sister objects, having the gall to appear outraged.

“Because for ‘a toast’ among two people you thought a bottle of a fucking galloon and half was right,” he yells back.

“A galloon and a third,” Harry points out, scrunching her nose the same way he does when he’s annoyed. “It’s not like I bought a Goliath, you know.”

“I don’t even want to know how big that one is,” John huffs. “Anyway, merry Christmas, Harry. Call me if you want to get better. I wish I could be a good sober companion. Draw you out of your problem, kicking and screaming if need be. But that’s not my branch of medicine.” He’s sad, and yes, probably a coward, but he can’t stay and watch Harry destroy herself. He’s so intimate with death – the death of good people, of friends, too – and trying to stave it, sometimes uselessly, that he feels like the least one can do is not invite the reaper with an irresponsible behaviour.

“Yeah, run, Johnny, why not, you always run,” she grumbles, and she might be right – when he finds himself helpless to help, he’d rather run than stay and watch people get hurt. Of course, his whole career – both as a soldier and as a doctor – ensures he will not be helpless. That he will be capable to fix the problem (pretty much any problem)…and if John has the ability to right the situation, you can bet that he fucking will.

Still, addiction – and Harry’s goddamned stubbornness – are too much for him to deal on his own. Clara got out of this, broke all ties, and as unable as the doctor is to do the same, he understands her. She didn’t leave because she didn’t care. Clara left because she truly loved Harry, very much so, and it was killing her to witness what was happening and be unable to stop her.

No matter how bitter and angry his sister is, she still cares for him, sort of. Still holding onto her bottle, she marches into the sitting room. John follows because, well, when Harry has a purpose you better check what said purpose is. She takes a tiny parcel from under the fake Christmas tree and throws it at him. After years of rugby practice, John catches it on instinct. Oh right. They haven’t exchanged gifts yet. They aren’t kids eager for them anymore, and quite like extending the anticipation.

“Merry Christmas,” she growls at him. “And now you can run away if you wish. I have all the company I want,” she declares, brandishing the bottle.

“Merry Christmas, Harry,” he answers, taking a just as small gift from a pocket.

Never mind that, since Sherlock suddenly insisted on sharing the fees from the cases they worked together with him in October (just in time for even the most organised of Christmas buyers, come to think of it), size is not indicative of value in this case. He tried to object, of course he did. But Sherlock had threatened to cut him off from the cases unless John behaved like the proper colleague he’d claimed to be, and the doctor had caved in. There was no way he would let the sleuth work on his own. He’s reckless enough to get himself killed.          

“Though I do wish you would rather have my company than Lanson’s here,” he sighs. As if Harry would ever pick him over alcohol.

She glares at him, so he lays the packet on a table and turns his back, hunched from grief. “I do wish you happiness, Harry.”

“Run to your not-soulmate, then. Maybe he’ll cheer you up,” his sister hisses.

Like the coward John sometimes can be, he does, without another word.            

“It’s not as late as I thought you would be,” Sherlock welcomes his flatmate, and it’s evident from his look that John suspects the sleuth very much of having being interrupted during something he should not do. Well, he’s not. Unless you count submerging himself deep in his mind palace to have A Serious Talk with the man now in front of him as a bad thing. Usually John’s comings and goings would not register when he’s in this state. Then again, usually he’s worried over a case or other not-blogger-related matters. He must have realised that there would be more data he needed to take into account in the real world now.

“It turns out I’m worse company than the biggest champagne bottle I’ve ever seen, and that I don’t want to see Harry give herself alcohol poisoning. Go ahead, tell me I am a coward. She did already, after all,” the doctor grumbles, his shoulder sagging with an unseen but enormous weight. 

“Really, John, you should know that I am the least qualified human being to pass judgement on anyone else,” the detective points out quietly. If he ever relapses, his… _flat_ mate will walk out on him. He’s known this since the start, but any further confirmation is a valuable reminder.  

“Odd sentence for someone who made a living catching criminals,” John remarks, but he’s smiling – not one of his many angry, disappointed or polite (fake) smiles, either. He’s a bit cheered up. Perfect.

“As you said, I catch them, I don’t judge them. I’m just letting people know what they’ve done – and having my share of fun and exercise in the process. Much better than going to the gym and having to pay for it to boot. Anyway, laws are flighty things – they change easily,” Sherlock drawls, body purposefully relaxed to hide his worry.

“And can be downright ignored most of the time when your brother is the British government, right?” his friend quips, “You know, sometimes I wonder if Mycroft would get a law changed for you, if you asked him.”  

“I don’t think I could afford the number of favours needed to obtain that. Besides, it’s more funny to break them and not get caught,” the sleuth admits, sitting upright. Which is not an unspoken invitation for his soulmate to join him on the couch and cuddle a bit. It’s emphatically not. Sherlock Holmes does not cuddle.

“You as a criminal? Now that’s a scary thought.” There’s still gentle tease, in his blogger’s voice, but with a shadow of…uneasiness? Something else?

“A spot of break-in here, a petty theft there…I’m not going to murder anyone, John. No matter how tempting Anderson might make the thought,” the sleuth declares, mouth quirking, but the oddest urge to _reassure_.

If John started believing the likes of Donovan and Anderson, who have preached his descent into serial killing since the very day they met him…it wouldn’t change anything, would it? He’s never cared what any idiot could think about him. It’s not like he really would start spree killing because his soulmate lost whatever little faith in him he has. If anything, the detective should do anything to prove his blogger is as much of a blind idiot as anyone else and be relieved the man refuses to be properly bonded with him. God forbid his dumbness should be contagious.

Still, he finds he wants to keep his mate’s good opinion of him (pathetic, really). And it seems his random musings have had at least one positive effect, because suddenly John is laughing – loudly, uncontrollably – and all his worries have melted away. It unknots something in the detective’s guts, too – something that had cramped without even his awareness, much less his permission.

The doctor practically falls into the recently vacated spot on the sofa, cackle too wild to let him keep his limbs’ coordination.

Sherlock grins too, and for the first time in the day, Christmas looks actually not grim. Mrs. Hudson has been in and out from the flat a few times during the day, trying to engage in conversation and feed him up, but without success.

Being overlooked by his soulmate, in favour of someone he can barely stand (bless Harry for being so frustrating in person that she drove him away) smarted too much for him to be willing to make pointless small talk. And the answers he needed, he couldn’t get from Mrs. Hudson.

The woman has never found her match, and the detective can’t help but regret it, because if anyone ever deserved perfect happiness is their sweet landlady. Though if she had, maybe she wouldn’t have lived long enough to meet Sherlock – look what happened to his parents – so everything turned out for the best, he supposes. His own selfish best at least. 

To his surprise – but certainly not to his displeasure – after a moment, when John can breathe properly again, the consulting detective finds his long legs trapped against the sofa by shorter ones. His mate is imitating the sleuth’s favourite stretch, but doesn’t seem to have found necessary to ask him to move.

“What?” the consulting detective blurts, voice lightly choked.

“You promised to help me build a mind something, remember? I thought this was a good start. Do I need to put my hands in the praying position too?” John asks.    

“Ah, no, that’s…my habit. Otherwise I wouldn’t know what to do with them, and I can get…fidgety, and people might think I’m gesturing to them, and interrupt me, so…” Sherlock explains – well, more like blabbers. But he isn’t ready to take on his teaching role, so abruptly. “Technically speaking, not even laying is necessary, you can do it sitting, standing,” he continues, but at the same time, without his saying so (probably his teen self again, the boy can be so frustrating) his hand clutches at John’s legs, as if afraid they’ll leave his lap, and starts gently rubbing. “Anyway, you can do whatever helps you relax and focus. And no, they’re not opposites…relax your body, you’re safe here, and focus your mind.”

“Fine. I can do that,” John agrees, voice already soft and as if coming from some distance. Smart man, and great apprentice. He simply moves his legs minutely more fully on his friend, as if afraid he might be slipping otherwise, fidgets awhile with his hands and opts to clutch a pillow he takes from under him. He’s not fully copying, and that’s good, as his momentary tutor’s smile confirms. He needs to develop his own structure, not be a monkey.  

“Though I don’t think a Gravel Gertie would be fitting,” the detective remarks, voice soft despite the critique. “I researched it, and it does stop contamination from spreading in case of a nuclear mishap…by collapsing on top of the faulty weapon. You don’t want your mind palace to collapse if you’re going through trauma. Why, it might be the moment where you need whatever knowledge you have stored the most.”

He _did_ research the nature of a Gravel Gertie – after the first time Mrs. Hudson tried to force food in him, and before deciding that he could try having a mind Serious Conversation with John to hopefully prepare himself to a real life one. Never mind having been interrupted midway through that one, what he has figured out is that it will be too awkward to possibly end well.

John chuckles softly. “Well, you might have a point. A collapsing mind bunker wouldn’t be very useful. So, what’s your suggestion?”

“Any place…or it can be a mishmash of places, too, if it helps…that you know very well. Places that have stuck in your memory. Rooms whose walls’ shade you could describe to me. That you could navigate in without a light and without bashing into anything. It can be your camp in Afghanistan. Bart’s. Anything,” Sherlock explains, shrugging but keeping his lower half utterly still, afraid to dislodge accidentally his clearly cosy blogger.

“The flat, then,” the doctor decides, and it is…flattering, in a way. Of course, it’s home – easy pick. But it’s _their_ home, not the home of his childhood, or the camp, or anything else, and while the sleuth might not have explained it aloud, he’s only too aware of the emotional value you always end up attaching to your mind palace. For the simple reason that places you don’t care for fade easily, even for people who don’t delete things on purpose – maybe even more, because they don’t consciously choose what to keep and what to discard.

“Mmmm,” the detective vaguely agrees. “Picture it in your mind. In as much detail as you can, please. Then take the knowledge you mean to keep – and attach it to some place in here. I guarantee you won’t ever lose it.”

“I don’t think I get it,” John admits immediately.

“For example, take your medical knowledge. Bind it into books – the books you studied on, I guess. Then put the books on our shelves. From then on, if you need some minor medical information you know you read but you can’t remember immediately, because you haven’t needed it in years, you just retire to your mind flat, pick up the pertaining book, and read it up. It will be just like googling. And you won’t have forgotten it, no matter how long ago you learned it,” his mentor expounds, still instinctively petting the ankles on his lap.

“Of course, you don’t _have to_ use books and shelves,” he adds quickly, “just…whatever form of association between physical places and data you find easier.” He doesn’t want to make John feel compelled – that would ruin the endeavour entirely. His soulmate’s brain needs to be free to make the most natural association, no matter how quirky they might look to anyone else. Otherwise it would clutter his head further instead of organizing it.    

“That’s all?” his blogger asks, sounding surprised…and maybe a tiny bit disappointed. (Oh gosh – now he’s disappointed John _further_ , he didn’t know it was even possible. What possessed him to offer to share mind palace technique?)

“Well, not all, of course, there are a few extra tricks…” the consulting detective assures hurriedly, eager not to lose the other’s admiration, “but I thought we’d start with the basics. For the first lesson, at least. Building a mind palace,”

“Mind _flat_ , let’s not start by being too ambitious,” John cuts in, voice soft and fond, and yet the chiding comes clearly through and – Sherlock can’t do anything right, can he?

“Yes, of course,” he agrees, chastised. “Anyway, building _it_ can be a bit time consuming. So I thought I wouldn’t overwhelm you with instructions. Let’s keep it simple, at least today.”   

“Yeah, sorry, I wasn’t…objecting, or anything. If you need anything, I’ll be up…here…for a bit,” his blogger remarks, tapping his temple, and the fact that while he’s right across his lap, John has just located himself inside his own head, unexplainably warms Sherlock’s chest. Having something more in common with his reluctant soulmate should not mean anything. It certainly won’t change the man’s opinion of him or their bond. And still, teen Sherlock is overexcited over so many details of this that he can’t quite decide what to be enthusiastic about.

The sleuth only nods his acceptance, not wanting to distract the man from his Very Important endeavour, but apparently his limbs work on autopilot. To his shame, it’s only a few minutes when he’s called out on that. “Is the… petting…necessary? Or helpful?” his pupil croaks, rather hoarsely. 

Sherlock’s hands go back to his side as if burned, and he blushes brightly. “Ah…no …I’m sorry… I was just…” and his voice tapers into silence, because for the life of him he can’t figure out a lie quickly enough to make any possible sense.  

“No, no, I wasn’t… criticising. It was _nice_. I was just checking if I’d been remiss all this time. whenever you are in your mind palace, I just leave you be,. If the whole caressing thing is going to make you solve cases faster, or reorganise the shelves more efficiently, or whatever you do while you’re in your mind palace…You know you only had to ask, right? I would have done it,” John says, and then mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “It was tempting enough.”

But it can’t be, he hates being bonded to the consulting detective, if he actually desired to touch him – not that he would, Mr. Not-Gay Watson – he wouldn’t balk at their shared destiny. Still, the sleuth needs to curb a moan at the mental image – their positions reversed, him in John’s lap (his head – definitely his head; his curls can be _very_ sensitive, but his blogger would be gentle, and…that’s the point), his hands playing absentmindedly with Sherlock’s hair. That would never happen, not in a million years, but…it is such a nice dream.

A low chuckle draws him out of his vision – and not a moment too soon, if he’d indulged much longer, John’s calves on his lap would risk to feel something that would disgust the man entirely. “I thought the point was to get me to build a mind flat, not for you to slip into your palace. You never answered me, you know?” his flatmate points out, sounding fonder of him than he probably is (oh, please no, John shouldn’t possess much acting prowess, he must have some fondness for him).

“What was the question?” the detective asks. Honestly, the last image running in his mind deleted everything else – but that must have been an insane wish fulfilment dream, surely?        

“Next time that you slip into your mind palace, would it be helpful if I cuddled you?” his friend queries, and there’s no mistaking it. This is not mindpalace!John. He didn’t dream it up.

Sherlock blushes, and angles his head away from his blogger, trying to hide it. He should have better control over his transport, damnit, but he’s still human, and when he’s caught off-guard (which he shouldn’t have been, the man is _repeating himself_ for God’s sake, but if things make no sense he will assume he’s misheard, obviously) his pale skin makes him no favours. At least his voice does not waver, when he replies, “It’s not necessary.”

And his flatmate, a smile evident in his voice, even when the sleuth is not looking at him, remarks, “That’s not what I asked.”

Only Sherlock _cannot_ ask aloud to be cuddled, and petted, not when his soulmate doesn’t want to bond him, and anyway that would probably make the mind palace explode. But he _cannot_ demand not to be touched either, because that’s a bit more masochism than he can subject himself to, so he’s in a quandary. After ten long seconds of pondering a way out of it, he blurts out petulantly, “Oh, just do whatever you want!”

“Because you won’t feel it at all? Is that how mind palaces… flats… whatever are supposed to work? Getting someone so focused that there might be an explosion in the flat and you wouldn’t notice?” John asks, and by now the consulting detective is marginally calmer, so he turns to watch his disciple. One of the doctor’s eyebrow is raised in wondering, and there’s a lopsided, fond grin on his lips.

“Well, maybe not an explosion,” he admits, smiling back, “not if you mean to survive. Explosions, fires, shootings, break ins… All these things certainly _should_ yank you back to reality. And I don’t think you will have problems with that, not with your training. Minor annoyances, though, certainly. Slight touches, common noises – the telly, or the traffic…”

“Or the married ones next door getting particularly noisy?” John cuts in, mirth in his eyes.

This time he doesn’t blush. Their neighbours’ activities do not even register. “Certainly. Anyway, anything that should not be cause for alarm you should be able to filter out and ignore when you’re in your mind,” he declares, shrugging slightly.

“You do realise that now I’ll have to test what would bring you out of your mind palace and what I can get away with when you’re focused, don’t you? For science. And as a template to see if I’m properly focused when I’m trying to build my own,” his…friend states, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Sherlock knows he will regret it, he _knows_ , but there’s only one possible comeback to the challenge. “Bring it on.”               

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: nothing mine, as always.

John should have known that the relaxed atmosphere wouldn’t last. It was too much to hope that the Woman would pass in their life like a blinding, discomfiting meteor and then leave them behind, free to get back to life as it should be.

Yesterday had seemed so…nice, even happy in a sense, but after all, the doctor hadn’t been there for half the day. His medical mind starts wondering if what he’d mistaken for affectionate petting, during their lesson, wasn’t instead some attenuated way of stimming. An attempt to deal with the emotions caused by her abrupt, violent death without acting out in a way that would break his disciple’s focus. Like an idiot, John had called attention to it and made him stop. Christ, he couldn’t do anything right, could he?

Maybe Sherlock had loved Irene, maybe not. The blogger would sell his soul to know the solution to this question… Not that it is any business of his, if one wanted to nitpick…But how can he help, instead of inadvertently making things worse, if he lacks relevant data? My God, now even his brain is starting to sound like the consulting detective!    

What is certain is that his flatmate recognised Irene. No, not in the “didn’t we go to Uni together?” way. In a deeper, almost soul-bond way, John would say, if the detective hadn’t assured him his bonded was long dead.  

Both were clever – way too clever for their own good, if the dominatrix’s fate is any indication. Both were able to read people’s secrets, though the Woman had restricted – and focused – her analytical abilities to a specific field of people’s behaviour. And fine, yeah, John can admit it if only to himself – it doesn’t mean he is gay, it means he has undamaged optical nerves, thank you very much – both were gorgeous. The same kind of gorgeous even, tall, dark and lean.

If he’d seen the two of them together somewhere – say, in Regent’s Park – without previously knowing any of them, he would have wondered for an instant if they were cousins, or something. (At least until Irene started being her usual sexually forward self, then he’d fervently hope they were not related, for everyone’s sanity).  

She _outsmarted_ the world’s only consulting detective. Not even Jim fucking Moriarty managed that. Of course she would make an impression. John can _want_ to erase even the memory of her – to help his flatmate delete her entirely. (Only to ensure that Sherlock stops hurting about losing her almost as soon as he found her, obviously). It doesn’t mean that he’s able to, or that his friend would agree to such a proposal.

The morning of Boxing Day, a pyjama-clad flatmate emerges from his room, eyes downcast, and mumbles, “I know I lost. I’m not getting out of my penance, John, I promise. I just…was wondering if you could wait a week before claiming your prize. I’m _really_ not hungry, and well – starting to eat properly on New Year – who knows, maybe the habit will stick.”

John – who woke up first, as usual, and likes it that way, being able to have a bit of time to get ready for the day before the appearance of Tornado Sherlock – stills, a hand already outstretched to offer a cup of tea to his friend. The weak attempt at humour only makes the situation worse, in his opinion.

This is not an “I’m on a case, I can’t eat,” childish tantrum. They have no ongoing case, now that the Woman is gone. Every fibre of the sleuth’s body broadcasts, “I’m too upset to eat,” and no matter how much the doctor looked forward to the occasion to nourish his friend properly for a while, he can’t force-feed him. Not in this state.

So he rests the cup on the table, and agrees immediately, “As long as you will pay up some day, I have no problem letting you off the hook now. Starting fresh on New Year sounds good. You’re as clever as always.”

His flatmate smiles at him, though it does not reach his eyes, and John feels heartened enough to say, “Will you have tea at least? This has nothing at all to do with the bet. It’s just me being my usual nosy self.”      

Sherlock nods, chugging down the drink like a medicine. Oh my. If tea can’t help, the blogger feels a bit lost. His urge to get his friend better – a mix of his own nature and long medical training – smashes against the reality of grief. If this is about Irene, and Sherlock doesn’t feel comfortable with whatever coping mechanism he’d concocted because of John’s careless words yesterday, the truth is that there is no cure. You don’t heal grief – and honestly, if you could, it still wouldn’t be healthy to do so with a pill or an injection. 

Speaking of injections, the doctor is very glad that he’s not expected to fill in for anyone at the hospital during the holidays. Keeping an eye out to ensure his flatmate won’t self-medicate is the least he can do.

He trusted him yesterday. Well, the flat was clean, and he trusted him not to go buy some under Mrs. Hudson’s apparently very-knowing nose – as far as these matters are concerned. But was he right? Maybe yesterday’s good mood… No, no. He’d have noticed his pupils or something, if Sherlock was under the influence. He’s a doctor. He _would have_.

His flatmate, still quietly, goes to take his violin and starts playing it, eyes closed, swaying quietly with the melody. It’s not anything John can recognise, but it has a melancholic and almost haunting quality that breaks the blogger’s heart. Not that he is an expert about violin pieces, but after a year of flatsharing, he knows at the very least Sherlock’s favourite scores. Maybe he can’t name them, but he can identify them. This one is not one he’s ever heard – it’s so poignant, he would remember it.

Of course, it is possible that the detective simply didn’t feel like playing it before, or maybe he did – when John was out, or asleep. Though, the blogger doubts that. He has the instinct to come up behind his flatmate and hug him until they both couldn’t breathe. Would it help? Comfort him like John is literally aching to do? Or would a surprise, unwanted touch only make things worse? John loiters on the door, unsure of what would help.  

The Woman couldn’t have the common courtesy to die quietly, without involving Sherlock in the identification of her body, could she? Her assistant, a number of their clients…so many people that knew her more intimately. Why would Mycroft do that to Sherlock?

Why – for that matter – would she ruin their Christmas with her ‘gift’? That’s selfish. Cruel. Then again, she was a dominatrix. He supposes that being cruel was her business. John, a few days ago, would have laughed if you’d insinuated that he would have wished for Miss Irene fucking Adler to officially become Sherlock’s lover.

 But at least, whatever violin playing echoed in such an event would be joyous. Triumphant, even. Even if Irene was no good news for anyone – zero principles and magnificent cleverness is not what you want around any human, much less the world’s only consulting detective – John would deal with the certainly rowdy sex and continuous put down to his intelligence. Anything, as long as Sherlock was happy.  

Instead, he’s left looking on, helpless. But for the question about their bet, Sherlock doesn’t say a word all day. He warned John – the very first time he met him, in fact – but the doctor is not truly used to lengthy stretches of silence. Not uncomfortable ones, at least. This is different from the consulting detective slipping into his mind palace and emerging from it six hours later with a crick in the neck and the solution to his latest case.

This is…grief? Is he mourning the Woman? She drugged him – still, is he missing her? Writing her funeral dirge? How taken was the consulting detective with her, honestly? John wants to ask, but given the current mood, he doubts he would receive any answer.

So he keeps quiet, too, writes a draft he’ll never publish on his blog about what is happening – Ella was right, putting things into words forces you to see them from a different perspective – and then deletes it in a hurry, before his usually nosy flatmate (though today he’s being ignored) can get to it and blame him. Because of the style, the grammar, because it’s not his fucking business if Sherlock falls in love or not. Technically, he supposes that’s true.

He dares interrupt the concert – softly, hoping it won’t ruin things again – to warn his flatmate that he’s going to run some errands, and does Sherlock need something? The sleuth only shakes his head, still not talking. “I’m going to ask Mrs. Hudson, too,” John adds, and it’s implied that, yes, he’s going to ask their landlady if she needs anything, but he’s going to ask her to keep an eye on Sherlock, too. That’s the reason he feels confident in leaving his friend alone.

Still, the trip to Tesco – just because it’s the closest place – is very quick. It seems he worried uselessly, because sad music is still flowing through the whole house when he comes back, and Mrs. Hudson – who asked for a few ingredients – confirms that he never stopped.

“At least he isn’t sawing at it,” she sighs, “but it just sounds so…sad. Nobody should be this sad around the holidays.”

“I’ll try to get him out of it, Mrs. Hudson,” he promises, not believing he can. “But people shouldn’t have to identify dead bodies at Christmas either.”

“Not unless they’re happy about it,” the old sweet woman concurs, and John is sharply reminded that she wished for someone’s death. Her husband. Certainly not her soulmate – a homonym maybe?

He’s promised Sherlock not to force him to eat. He hasn’t said anything about not tempting him. So, when lunch time comes around, he starts cooking. The smell wafting around might ply his friend’s stomach, much better than just ordering takeaway. He’s not a great cook, but he has learned his flatmate’s tastes by now. To his disappointment, there’s no tall lanky shadow peeking in the kitchen. The music stopped though – he’s grateful, not because it was unpleasant, but because the obsessive violinist was going to make his fingers bleed otherwise. At least there’s that.

When the lunch is done (he’s got that recipe from Angelo, who shared it with lots of pleased chuckles and eyebrows wiggling) he enters the sitting room. He’s just going to announce the meal is ready. Not pressure anyone. Surely, offering is allowed?

Instead, he’s welcomed by Sherlock on the sofa, and voice dies in his throat. The man is either napping, sulking or deep in his mind palace. Well, the sulking option is slightly less likely because he’s not trying to suffocate himself, offering his back to the cruel world. First thought would be mind palace, but he’s seen the man hold his thinking position while snoring slightly, sometimes, to his great amusement. True, the sleuth isn’t snoring now.      

Which is why he feels allowed to assume mind palace and start the experiment he’d warned Sherlock about. First, he touches the back of his flatmate’s hand, lightly. Just a sort of…petting. He’s not acknowledged in any way. So far, so good.

Afterwards, he finds a pen and balances it behind his friend’s ear. Still no reaction. What to do next… He takes a step back to survey his choices. For a second, he regrets not living with Harry (though living with Harry AND Sherlock in the same house would be nothing short of hell on earth), because his flatmate’s feet are bare – aren’t they cold? – and he just lost an occasion to paint his nails a rainbow of pretty, maybe glittery colours. Ridiculous enough that it might cheer the mourning man up. John files the idea away for the next time he goes shopping. He might need a whole lot of makeup materials. Bless Harry for making him help when she was getting ready for a date, he’s pretty sure Sherlock wouldn’t even be able to disparage his technique.

John is half tempted to build a house of cards on his flatmate’s lean stomach, but that might be a bit much. For him, not the sleuth. The least touching is done, the better it is. He doesn’t need the consulting detective to come back to his senses and find him in a shameful state. So no, that’s out.

The idea of balancing something on him is still enticing, though…and the blogger did come to persuade his friend into eating. So he tiptoes back to the kitchen, plates up a small portion in a shatterproof dish, and lays it on the detective’s abdomen. Yes, there’s a very high chance that he will have to clean that up, but if finding it there makes his flatmate eat it before his brain fully engages, it will be a victory worth the risk.

Sherlock was so John-starved, yesterday, despite the man’s absence being less than he should have expected, that he’d forgotten to pout, give him the cold shoulder or punish him in any way for being such a double standards hypocrite. He could bring a girlfriend inside 221b, since he refused to acknowledge their soulmate relationship, but the sleuth wasn’t even supposed to text another woman, was he? Never mind that he didn’t text her…she texted him. Not that the blogger had any right to know that.

In the morning, he wakes up to the sudden realisation he’s supposed to behave. For a week. True, the bet only entailed food. But he knows that if he is particularly troublesome, John will feed him more in retaliation. And as he feels now, hurt and stretched thin, opening his mouth at all is a danger – what if it all spills out, and he demands to know why his own soulmate rejected him? The answer would destroy him.     

So, after weaselling his way out of the bet, for the moment – he has a few days to rebuild his inner walls, at least – he mixes the hunger strike with a silent spell. He needs time. Time to plan his next move. Time to understand John, understand Irene, understand if there’s anywhere he can seek help. 

Because – as loath as he is to acknowledge it, even only to himself – he needs help, if he’s not going to lose his mind. Not to let this last, ultimate rejection destroy him from the inside out.

Should he take what little scraps of care and fondness John can spare for him and be grateful for it? What would Mycroft say? “You do not need a soulmate anyway, little brother. By refusing to bond, your doctor is possibly saving your life. Your cases are rife with danger, after all. What if the next criminal you meet has an unlawful firearm of his own, and a lucky shot takes John out? Army people are supposed to be unbonded – you don’t want the enemy to double its body count by virtue of biology. Your relationship is based on being brothers in arms, he’s been trained to ignore your connection until the end of the war.”

Mind palace Mycroft has a point. Why didn’t Sherlock realise it sooner? He’s always so _slow_. As immense a relief it is, this suspicion that maybe – just maybe – John is not ignoring their relationship because the sleuth is so very subpar. To shake off the army training is not easy, this is understandable.

Certainly John will take their soulmate relationship seriously as soon as danger is gone… When they retire, somewhere nice and quiet, maybe in the country, or by the coast…

He can see it. He starts to decorate their new home. It will be similar to this one, of course, they are so very happy here. A fireplace, certainly, and not one of these fake ones. One they can cook on. Two armchairs. Will these ones be still serviceable, or should they get new ones? And of course, they should have a garden. He will have to ask Mummy for gardening advice.      

Before he can emerge from his musings, happy and relieved, Mike Stamford stumbles in. He wasn’t aware that Mike wandered about the mind palace, but it’s not surprising that John might have let him in, or that he would come to offer a new point of view about the bond he facilitated. Why would Mike be limping, though? He’s not hurt, to the sleuth’s knowledge.     

“Oh, Sherlock. John, retiring? What did you deduce as soon as you saw him? Somewhere quiet would be detrimental to your soulmate’s health. John needs the adrenaline. He needs the thrill of risk, more than you’ve ever needed cocaine, possibly. Perhaps it is for this very reason that whatever creates the bond paired the two of you. Because you’ve never been and will never be sensible enough to stay out of danger. John gets a permanent dealer, and you get someone to protect you and keep you alive,” the pudgy man explains, ending it in a heavy sigh.

_Oh._ Sherlock hates his brain, sometimes. It knows him well. If Mycroft had been the one to shot down his hopes – though certainly in character for the great git – the sleuth would have ignored him out of sheer stubbornness. His brother is always right – it doesn’t mean that the detective has to agree with him, or comply with his suggestions. Instead, his brain took Mike – kind, sweet, Mike, whom he’s never thanked though he really really should – to point out what he doesn’t want to remember.

John will never want to retire. It would kill him from the inside out. Abandoning their dangerous lifestyle is – logically – the only situation in which he might be convinced to acknowledge their relationship. In the best potential situation, assuming he might ever be tempted to, and the consulting detective isn’t simply too utterly disappointing, of course. But for John, losing the thrill of cases would push him into a dark mood that would destroy him. Ergo, their bond is evermore going to be unspoken. At best.

If John does not truly despise him and finds someone else – _anyone_ else – whose company is more suitable for him. Never mind that commonly accepted knowledge claims this should be impossible. Sherlock might be the first to prove such an event is only highly improbable. Honestly, he’s not looking forward to the distinction.

He could end in science books, if John had the bravery to acknowledge publicly their relationship….and that he doesn’t care for it. Who knows, maybe that will be a blog post once he dies. (Of course he’s going to die earlier than his John. It’s only logic.) He has to accept this. Stop railing against his fate.

Still, he can’t. The sleuth would do anything for this not to be true. Is there anything he could do, though? His brain keeps running in circles, eating itself out. Help… help… he’d hoped for the dominatrix to solve his quandary, but she keeps teasing and asking for what he can’t give. Is that a technique, too? She must know he’s not going to give into her – that he _can’t_. For someone who prides herself on knowing what people like, such a level of obliviousness would be unforgivable. So she insists on asking for what he’s not willing to concede in order not to have to deny his requests herself. Clever.

Who else is there for him to turn to, though? Mrs. Hudson has never found her soulmate, to his knowledge, and while she’s been hurt by her husband, that method of handling the situation is unfathomable.

Molly too has clearly never found hers, and worse, her head is full of drivel from romantic movies where it’s all a ‘meet, kiss and bang’ in nary a day.

Mycroft would congratulate him on having a soulmate sensible enough to refuse bonding and leave it at that, refusing to acknowledge Sherlock as anything but childish for hurting because of it.

Any of his Scotland Yard colleagues *must not* be involved in his personal life. He has an image to maintain – even if it is that of a freaky sociopath. Letting them know he has feelings and they can be hurt would only make things worse for him. Besides, they call him in because they can’t figure out things that are literally staring them in the face. How could they help?

And that’s it. That’s his circle of more-than acquaintances. And they’re all useless for what he needs to figure out. As for professionals… A couples’ therapist would ultimately be just a shrink, and he’s seen enough of these as a child. Besides, there’s never been one he couldn’t run rings around and have diagnosing whatever Sherlock felt like at the moment. He expects that, with how arrogant and yet simpleminded they are, he’s not the only one able to do that.

Which was why he was looking forward a professional of sex, if Irene would just stop being so annoying. Or maybe any escort would do? No, at the very least he needs one who’s able to read people’s penchants. Use her brain rather than just what is between her legs. And now he’s back to square one, isn’t he?

Before his brain can start tearing himself apart again, he’s brought back into his body by an unexpected warmth on his stomach. He opens his eyes to see the bowl of food. He’s… confused, mostly. Of course, teen Sherlock’s first reaction is to crow in victory, “See? He does care for me on some level!”

But his most rational side (aka inner Mycroft, always doing his best to be annoying) shuts the boy up. “He’s a doctor, Sherlock. Ensuring people’s health is instinct for him. He would do it for one of your homeless network. Hell, he would do so for any random stranger that wasn’t in any way related to the two of you.” 

That makes sense. Suddenly nauseous because of the previously delicious smell of food, the sleuth removes the dish from himself without a word and curls up, back to the world. How is he ever going to escape his situation?

John apparently finds the situation agreeable, because he goes about his business without trying to engage him any further. Who knows, maybe he likes this arrangement even better. John is in the sitting room, clicking his time away – videos of cats again, if the suffocated giggling is anything to go by. He’s sighed when the consulting detective got rid of the offending plate, but at least not tried to pressure him.

He’s not even sure what to do – thinking is not giving him any solution. Talking is out of question, should all his anguish slip out like boiling water from a badly closed pot. Approaching John in silence – just peak at what’s so interesting (so much more interesting than him, and yes, he knows he’s unreasonable and pathetic) – is so very tempting. But that might give his blogger the idea that he’s up for conversation, and he’s absolutely not ready for it.

In the end, he holes himself in his bedroom, with his own computer, and busies himself by hacking John’s. So he can see what he’s up to without letting him know. That’s a bit not good, probably, but what John doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Yes, cat videos. And other so called funny animals.

There’s an otter who looks properly outraged at being handed cups that can’t be properly stacked. Is that how John feels? Receiving the wrong hand from life, something that doesn’t fit? No, the time he lingers on it suggests no deep emotional response. Sherlock must stop overthinking things. He’s only hurting himself. If only his brain did have an off-switch. Heroin would do nicely, actually, right now.

No, no. He’d lose cases from Lestrade, and John would go away. He won’t tolerate addiction. The sleuth knows this from the very first day.  

Distraction. He needs a distraction. Maybe an experiment will do. He opened Molly’s gift after all the fuss, and found a couple of interesting earlobes. Luckily, they’ve not suffered from the time spent outside the fridge. Because of rather more formaldehyde than Sherlock usually likes on his samples, yes, but still, she was thoughtful. (What would have happened if he’d opened it at the party? Was she helping him chase whomever-John’s-girl was away? Nah, too shrewd and not enough return for her.)

Anyway, it’s an idea.

True, this means possibly facing John. But after all, it’s his flat, too. They’re not going to discuss the elephant in the room – it’s almost a year they’re ‘not together’, and they’re obviously quite adept at that. And his blogger (that, at least) shouldn’t find his hobby too distasteful. As long as he doesn’t contaminate the food, his medical background makes him plenty accepting.  

So he slips out of his room and starts experimenting (his inner John – who’s less likely to ignore him – suggests ‘playing’, but that’s obviously wrong). Then again, he warned his potential flatmate about his bouts of silence from the start. If the doctor takes it in stride instead of trying to force him out of it, like Mycroft used to do, that’s good , isn’t it?

John wanders towards him every now and then, with silly excuses – a cup of tea, or a fruit, or even just looking on with an interested expression, but not asking for an explanation. Besides, he can see what his flatmate is doing, and as for the reasons, he’ll just have to wait. Sherlock accepts with a nod to share the tea, and they pretend the insane amount of honey in it is nothing odd, even if it’s clearly John getting at least a few calories into him.

The sleuth loves and hates these little shows of caring. No matter how harshly he beats him down, his teen self still gets excited over Each. Fucking. One. “He wants to know what I’m up to! He finds me interesting!”, and, “He cares for me! I don’t care what you say!” (pouting, the little idiot), and, “He doesn’t need vitamins! He wants to stay close! That must be a sign!” The consulting detective knows better than to believe him, though. There are perfectly sound explanations for all these activities.

Which is why he loathes John, and – thankfully – glares or scowls almost every time the man gets close. He wants more. He wants it all. The whole package he was promised, of love and eternal bond and all that drivel that he laughs at Molly for. One cup of tea is not going to cut it, no matter how sweet. No amount of honey can soothe the bitterness inside him.

Which is why, when John starts preparing dinner, he veritably stomps away. He’s not going to cave in – he’s not going to open his mouth today, it’s the only safe choice, when so many words press in his throat – so avoiding temptation is the wisest choice.

His flatmate (just that) sighs deeply at his leaving, but once again, doesn’t try to press it. Instead, he brings his plate to the sofa, asking him to move over a bit, because he wants to watch something while he eats and the sofa is more comfortable. Sherlock huffs nonverbally but agrees, and John starts watching Midsomer Murders.         

Well, that is more than the consulting detective can bear quietly. It’s obvious, it’s bloody obvious, if any of the bumbling police officers just took the time to _look_ , but no, they flit around like drunken bees while the bodies pile up on their metaphorical doorstep. It’s astonishing that there’s anyone still alive in the bloody county. So the sleuth yells, and it feels good, because he has so many things he needs to rage about, and if he can’t, shouting at police is always been a favoured alternative. The fact that Barnaby can’t get frustrated with his manners and end the day with him needing bail is just extra points.

At his side, John is openly smiling, and whether it is because he honestly enjoys the ridiculous show or because he’s tricked Sherlock into opening his mouth (he’s not planning to deftly shove food into it, is he?) it’s uncertain. But he’s venting at least a tiny part of his frustration, and John is happy (with himself, maybe). This is undoubtedly the best part of the day.           


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: still nothing mine. Obviously.

  

Every day more, John is tempted to seek out Mycroft and punch his living daylights out. If he hadn’t involved his little brother in the goddamned case out of sheer laziness, they would be happy now. He would be allowed to feed his friend freely – take advantage of the holidays to put a bit of meat on these bones. Maybe he could convince Sherlock to go out and deduce all the passer-by’s, and they would be having a grand time.

It’s not like Mycroft fucking Holmes couldn’t handle the Woman by himself. Even if he didn’t trust his own men, if the elder brother wasn’t so horribly lazy, or unwilling to deal with the effing CIA, he could just go and take the stupid phone himself. Why, Mycroft probably wouldn’t even have to smoke it out.

Sherlock wouldn’t have ever landed eyes on her maddening self, and now he wouldn’t be mourning what never was. John hopes nothing ever happened, at least. He’s not with the detective 24/7. They could have met. Maybe it did. Maybe that’s why her death hit his friend that hard.

Which brings him back to the physical need to punch Mycroft. Maybe that would garner a smile out of the consulting detective. Then again, the effing British government might easily make him disappear if John rearranges the man’s features to his own satisfaction. Staying in 221B and taking care of his friend takes precedence over venting his feelings.

The week the detective has requested, to…mourn? Deal with his feelings, whatever they were, for the deceased dominatrix? leaks slowly. The sleuth survives mostly on honey, but every few days John slips into Captain Watson mode. If he’s stern enough, there is an 85%  chance that his flatmate will comply. Of course, during his army days he’d never had to order someone to ‘finish this plate, _now_ ,” but whatever works.

The first day seems to have set the mood for the grieving sleuth. It seems working his feelings out in silence – or at least without words – is Sherlock’s choice. Of course, the flat isn’t entirely quiet – there’s violin haunting (that’s the right verb for the music) the rooms at all hours. But no tears, or screams (unless it’s at trash telly that John puts on and his friend does not object to), or sobs, or really any words.

Really, the blogger should be happy for that. Relieved. If his flatmate did any of that, it would certainly be supremely awkward and uncomfortable for all parties involved. John might be more well-adjusted as far as emotions went (but was he? God knows, he’s a mess), but he still doesn’t find easy to talk about them. It’s not how he’s been brought up.

And yet, he finds himself wishing Sherlock would rant, rage at the cruelness of fate…vent it out. He has no idea what he could say at that, but he knows he would push past his own embarrassment and uneasiness to comfort. In some way. Any way. Anything more significant than a cup of honeyed tea, anyway.

Maybe a hug? Would the sleuth even like a hug? John can’t randomly cuddle people who just go quietly about their business. It’s not done. So, as long as Sherlock keeps his mourning confined to long, silent sulks and heart-rending violin solo, the doctor doesn’t have a chance to spring physical contact on him. Even when he finds his arms aching with the desire to do so. Oh fuck. It’s all Sherlock’s goddamn name’s fault, is it? John has never had it this bad before. Not with any friend or previous partner.  

The week his friend had requested for his mourning is finally at the end. Last day of the year. Tomorrow, he will be authorized to feed his flatmate properly – unless he tries to weasel out of the bet again. If he does, John will probably let him.

The doctor just hopes that the silent period will finally come to an end. True, the consulting detective still yells at the telly – the reason they watched more trash shows this week that in the month before, because John can’t stand not hearing his friend’s voice for a full day, apparently. But they’ve not had a conversation since Christmas, and while they’ve always been comfortable in companionable silence, the blogger finds he misses the simple things. Even deciding if they’re eating Italian or Chinese.

He’s managed not to cuddle his flatmate to an inch of his life, in this long, long week – the longest week of his life since these never-ending days between his discharge and meeting Sherlock. He longs for this purgatory to end. Tomorrow…maybe – but feelings don’t work that way, do they? Not even the world’s only consulting detective can decide to process grief for a week and then delete it, or bolt it in some dungeon of the mind palace.

John knows. He’s intimate with grief – losing people. He keeps dreaming of all the comrades he couldn’t save. Now less often – he supposes saving Sherlock’s reckless hide, again and again and again, sort of makes up for that, in his subconscious – but still, some nights he’ll wake trembling… and usually be lulled to sleep by a restless violin.

Luckily, today is looking up – Sherlock is still not eating and breaking their heart via his music, but he will make small talk. Well, small talk…reply to a concerned Mrs. Hudson, at least. John is grateful for the old woman’s presence in their lives. With both of them – presumably, who hell knows anything about the detective – having lost their parents, the doting landlady is a true blessing.

The doctor has mixed feelings, though. Oh, he loves her – he adores her, truly. The one thing the detective has eaten this week is her baking, perhaps not to hurt her feelings, and that would be enough for him to be so grateful to the dear lady. On another note, she makes him feel guilty. Because she thinks they’re more than what they actually are, no matter his protests, and – consequently – that John has much more influence on his friend than he truly has. Which is why, when the blogger is unable to help with the consulting detective’s mood, her quiet disapproval is patent. As if he’s not trying hard enough.

Something catches Sherlock’s attention suddenly. The doctor’s stuck blog counter. He hasn’t even noticed – this week he hasn’t felt like updating, and even if he’s been on the computer a lot, he hasn’t opened his blog. Not that he can write a post about a grieving flatmate and him missing someone who’s just by his side, anyway, his readers aren’t here for that sort of content – but for Ella, maybe, she would probably have a field day with that.               

The sleuth dashes to the damned gift that ruined their Christmas – the blasted phone – and tries the number on it before deflating when it doesn’t work. John’s heart pangs in sympathy. A message beyond death itself? Would the Woman have bothered with it? Fine, the doctor might be ready to think the worst of her, but to think that his friend still yearns for a connection to the manipulative creature is galling. And then he silently scolds himself for his lack of pity towards a victim of murder.

 Still, there’s a limit to the amount of sadness he can take when he’s helpless to help. So, John mumbles an excuse and leaves. Maybe he’ll come across something that might distract Sherlock from his grief, if for a minute or two.

He goes to say goodbye to their landlady – there’s always the chance that she needs an errand run – and whispers his concerns about his friend. If anyone is on his side in this, it’s her. She knows the man since…he’s not certain since when, actually, but longer than him. And the dear lady certainly has shown to care about the sleuth’s relationships, cooing about them since day one. If anyone knows the consulting detective’s sentimental record (Mycroft notwithstanding) it should be her. Hopefully she knows what – beside a murder the doctor doesn’t feel like committing – could make his friend forget the Woman.

Uselessly, it appears. Mrs. Hudson sighs deeply and claims she knows nothing of any past lovers or, broadly speaking, relationship the man might have had. The sleuth’s heart is an enigma. If he doesn’t confide in their putative mum, there’s no way John can read through him, or know what would help him best. And helping is all he wants to do, really. Hopefully he’ll come across a way.   

It seems somebody agrees that it is time to do something to lift Sherlock’s mood. There’s a black car on their threshold, and John isn’t even surprised. If anyone knows about his friend’s past relationships and how to help him deal with heartbreak, it’s Big Brother. And Mycroft is nosy enough to decide it’s time for an intervention.

Apparently, he’s changed the behaviour code for his assistants, though. This one is downright flirty. Maybe the elder Holmes has decided that he owes John a compensation after ruining his Christmas eve date and ultimately causing him to breakup. Honestly, the doctor should jump at the occasion – and he automatically flirts back – but something in the back of his brain itches. A sense of wrongness.

He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t want people, when there’s even a shadow of a doubt they might have been ordered to seduce him. He has standards, and he’s not that desperate.

It’s not because he doesn’t want to flaunt a new girl in front of a heartbroken detective. Or because he’s getting tired of girls assuming he’s Sherlock’s unfaithful soulmate. It has nothing to do with his flatmate at all. Sherlock doesn’t rule his sentimental life.         

Still, while the pretty brunette tries to butter him up, he makes a point to mention Mycroft, multiple times. Bring the conversation back to work – her work. He makes a point to criticise her boss, too. Groan about Mycroft’s stupidly huge power complex, which leads to ‘kidnappings’ and empty buildings rather than a phone call or a conversation in front of a cup of tea or a pint like human beings. They could be private meetings all the same – it’s not like his flatmate tails him all the time. 

If nothing else, the elder Holmes has suddenly developed a sense of humour, since he’s led to the most stupidly huge power complex in the area. That should have been his first hint that something was wrong, he supposes. Mycroft laughs – well, more like sneers – at many things, but the arrogant prick had still to show any hint of self-irony. Even if he’d suspected the elder Holmes was not behind this offer of a lift, he would have never in a lifetime guessed the true mind of this kidnapping. But at least, he wouldn’t have started discussing his flatmate’s “symptoms” – his private life – before even seeing who was there.   

He has accidentally betrayed the man in the worst possible way, offering a weapon against him to one of the only people John had ever truly hated – and this includes the fucking Talibans. Then again, when the sleuth says someone is dead, his blogger believes him.

The doctor blinks at the should-be zombie in front of him. Maybe he’s been drugged? But why would he hallucinate her out of everyone he’s ever met? No – she’s true. She somehow managed to dupe the world’s only consulting detective – and break his heart in the process. How dares she?

She has the gall to greet him. Casually. As if she’s a patient and they’ve just met in a café. At least, this time she’s dressed. And why wouldn’t she? He’s not Sherlock. She doesn’t need to fry his brain. _What_ does she need from him, at that?

Actually, it doesn’t matter. He snaps at her to rectify the sleuth’s misconception, _posthaste_. She might be used to dominate every interaction, but he’s channelling Captain Watson at his sterner, implying, ‘you better obey me _yesterday_ ’.

Irene has the gall to raise an eyebrow at him. Challenging. As if she outranks him. She has no sense of danger, has she? How did she survive till now? Well, running and faking, clearly. Revealing herself entirely ruins that tactic, though. “He would come after me,” she states, as if it explains everything.

Well, of course. That’s the point. The sleuth will know, and be able to decide if he wanted to pursue her in a sentimental capacity or in a working capacity. His blogger hopes that being duped will make him realise that a jail cell, courtesy of Mycroft, is the best option for her, but if he wants her in his bed, that’s his choice. At least he will stop moping.

“If you don’t, _I_ will come after you,” the former soldier declares, smiling his most dangerous smile. Because if she doesn’t care about breaking Sherlock’s heart, if she _wants_ him to suffer… well, John has disliked her from the start, and you can’t go to jail for killing an officially dead woman, can you?

“You truly would, wouldn’t you?” she inquires, and for the first time he sees in her eyes something like respect.

He nods brusquely. “I am glad we understand each other. By the way, how did you manage to pull the wool over Sherlock’s eyes?”

“Even he would believe a DNA test. And these are only as good as the records you keep. And I knew what the record-keeper liked. But never mind that. I gave him something, and I need it back. And you will get it back for me. Be a dear and _fetch_ , will you?” she purrs, lips stretching in a predatory smile.

“What is it with you people? I’m not a dog!” he growls – which, in retrospect, might not be the most brilliant way to deliver such a line.

“Not mine, certainly,” she agrees, with a small nod. “Pity, really. If I could have you both, you’d make a luscious pair of pets. I would spoil you rotten, you know. Kate would be so jealous!”

The more she talks, the more he’s tempted to murder her and then give a call to Mycroft. He would clean up the crime scene for him, the doctor is pretty sure. Why, he could even get a reward.                  

She seems to read it in his eyes, because she immediately changes tack. “Look, the thing I gave him… I’m not the only one after it. He’s in danger as long as he holds onto it. If you’d just get it back for me, you’d be acting for his safety.”

“I am,” he bits back simply, “if I can get you to tell him you’re alive. You want it back? Ask him yourself.” And he _is_ – this would certainly pull Sherlock out of his current mood. Whatever happens afterwards, it’s not John’s business. Angry, happy, both… at least his friend won’t try his level best to waste away anymore.

“I’m not going to,” she declares. Stubborn, uh? Just like someone John knows. Well, he’s done all he could.

“Then I’ll have to. Fine. I suppose this means I don’t get a lift back?” he quips. Mycroft would offer him one anyway, but she’s not Mycroft. He just hopes she’s not deluded enough to think she can stop him.          

The Woman frowns, and mutters something he would swear is, “So obstinate!” Pot, kettle, much? Then she relaxes her stance, accepting defeat with as much grace as she can muster. “Fine,” the dominatrix sighs, “What do you want me to tell him?”              

“You’ve never lacked things to chat about. Again and again. I’m sure you’ll find something to discuss without my input,” the blogger points out bitterly.

Irene sighs, as if utterly put upon, and then whips out a mobile phone and starts reading – well, not all the fifty-seven texts, but a selection wide enough to give him a very clear idea of the tone of their conversation. Their very flirty conversation. Why would she do that at all? Fine, Sherlock goes through his mails to his girlfriends, but if this is the Woman’s idea of allowing him to even the score, he’s never asked for it.      

He scowls darkly at her, accusing, “You _flirted_ with him.” That’s beyond cruel. The one thing that John, for all of his scarce interactions with the woman, is certain of, is that – like the detective – she plans at least seven steps ahead of anyone else. That she’s been stringing the sleuth along recently, even after she certainly decided the ‘fake her death’ plan, is nothing short of unforgivable.  

“At him,” she remarks, pouting, “he didn’t reply a single time. Rude, if you ask me.” A breath, and she adds, “Asking for punishment.”

John swallows the reply that was already on his lips. Sherlock answers – he always answers, has a practically compulsive need to have the last word. He was ready to call bull on her declaration, but… what if she’s right? What if he’s liked the taste of her whip a little too much and was trying to rile her into getting physical instead of continuing to text? He’s not in his flatmate’s head – nobody can be, but for a handful of geniuses…and she might just belong in that bunch. The idea still leaves a bad taste in his mouth. The sleuth tried to play with her so she messed right back with his emotions, did she? God, he despises her so much.

“Pity he’s not mine to set straight…ah, but that wouldn’t be the right word, would it? Not from me, at least. I’m sure Kate would have some serious complaint if I took him on full time, and anything less wouldn’t do for him. People like him need a firm hand… but one they can lean on, whenever the need arises. You can’t plan when he’ll get in a mood and make an appointment, can you? Not with your cases,” the Woman continues, chuckling throatily.           

If magic were real, John’s glare would already have turned her to ashes.

“But I suppose this is a pleasure reserved for the consulting detective’s soulmate,” she concludes, shrugging.

“Luckily for him, his soulmate is already dead,” the doctor quips, and he really means it. If Sherlock’s soulmate was supposed to be as manipulative and sadistic as Irene seems to be so sure, having never met him is a blessing. It might be blasphemy to think so, but John is very, very relieved that he’s not come across his friend’s soulmate, if the dominatrix’s diagnosis is true. The result would not have been pretty.

“He told you that?” she inquires, head tilting like a puzzled dog, and an eyebrow raising in scorn. How does she manage two expressions at once?

“Obviously,” the blogger quips, defensive, not even realising he’s stealing one of the sleuth’s favourite words.

“And you never tried to check? Sneak a peek? You do live together. I would have thought that for someone so invested in your… flatmate’s… life, it would be the first thing you’d do,” Irene teases.

“Unlike someone, I respect people’s privacy,” John grouses, glaring even more.

“Unlike, indeed. As soon as he was out of it, I *had* to see who the lucky one was. And sadly, it wasn’t me. Then again, Kate wouldn’t be pleased about having competition for that, too,” the Woman remarks, with a lopsided smile.

The doctor can only gape, shocked. “You already have your soulmate… and you checked him anyway? Why in God’s name would you do that?””

“Well, nothing was stopping him from having a one-sided soulmate relationship… a girl can hope! Owning him would be so good,” Irene replies nonchalantly, as if she’s not admitting to being an absolutely awful human being. A one-sided soulmate is not something you wish one _anyone_. “You can relax, though, Sherlock is not like that. I’m not sharing who his soulmate is, though,” she adds, with a playful smirk.

“No, I’m not asking,” John hurries to deny. Whether he wants to share his name or not, it’s Sherlock’s choice and no one else. He’s just ended this thought, that he contradicts himself, by querying, “Just… please tell me it isn’t Jim.”          

The Woman’s look is one the blogger has seen many, many times on his flatmate’s face. The “I’m utterly disappointed and oh so tired at the nth proof of ordinary people’s foolishness” look. She doesn’t pretend to ignore what he’s talking about, though. Someone who’s spent so long flirting with Sherlock would obviously have checked John’s blog, for additional gossip, and he’s sketched the events surrounding the bloody _game._ “Let me create new and inventive crimes for you to solve, so we can both have fun? Is that what you think Sherlock Holmes’ other half would be?” she quips, with a tiny sigh.

“I don’t know,” he admits truthfully. And what he would give to know. True, Moriarty seemed to despise the very idea of soulmates, to want the consulting detective ‘just because’. But nothing Moriarty does is ever straightforward. It’s all games and pretences and God knows what. If John could read through him, he would be a sleuth himself… and he’s not eager to know the depths of wickedness inside the consulting criminal, either. “But you haven’t seen him playing the game,” the doctor concludes bitterly.

“No, you’re right,” the dominatrix agrees, with a little smirk, “but I have seen his name. And it’s not Jim. Or James, Jamie, or any other variation of it.”

John sighs in relief.            

“I’m still not saying who is,” Irene teases, with a playful wink.

“And as I said, I’m not asking. I’m honestly not asking. He has a right to his privacy.”

“You wish he’d be yours, though,” the dominatrix states. Not hypothesize, or wonder.

This should be John’s cue for one of his usual denials, but she’s good at reading people. So instead he redirects the conversation. “His name has no bearing here. You already know the only thing I demand of you,” the blogger replies sternly.            

 “You’re no fun at all,” the Woman pouts. But she caves in, and shows him the proof of her big reveal – fittingly, via text. Whatever happens, the ball is in Sherlock’s court, now. As it should always have been.         

A sound that John knows all too well echoes faintly. Oh God oh God. No, of course it’s not that. This is a big… empty… thing. Maybe some very eager couple decided it was a hiding spot as good as any other for a quickie. A moan is a moan, after all.

Oh, whom was he kidding? Sherlock has tailed him. Probably recognised it wasn’t Mycroft’s car (from what?) and worried that John was going to end in another pool. Still, shadowing your flatmate is a bit not good. They might need to talk about it, if the doctor can ever gain enough bravery to face what happened here.

Or what did _not_ happen. His lack of denial could be enough for an average observant person to smell something fishy. The world’s only consulting detective? He’s going to know about John’s feelings – he already does, in all probability. It could be that the sleuth’s lie stems from having a different soulname, despite bearing John’s rather unique name, and not wanting to be burdened by John’s one-sided or misguided feelings. Or possibly the detective scorns the soulmate institution in itself, or simply John – damaged as he is – and the lie was a convenient way not to start a fight over it.      

Said consulting detective, in the meantime, is blushing furiously, utterly relieved that, at least, he’s hidden in a spot where the conversing couple cannot possibly see him. He’s been so careful to pick that. And still, while he scuttles away with all the hurry his long legs allow him, he berates himself furiously. John utterly ruined him, just as he always knew the man would. He’s going to have to retire and give up the Work, too. He’s clearly unfit anymore.

Not even Anderson would have made such a rookie mistake. When you tail someone, your own mobile phone has to be muted. Even a random passerby without any knowledge of investigation would know that. Especially when one’s text ringtone is so very… distinctive. John had grumbled so much over it (Mrs. Hudson, too), and he’d refused to change it simply because his soulmate’s jealousy, as puzzling and illogical as it was, made him feel… treasured, somehow. A bit.

That the same ringtone would out him and his stalkerish ways (but with his blogger accepting lifts from any black car, what could he do?) is due payback, he supposes. When his flat(soul)mate gets home, he will undoubtedly want to have a conversation about boundaries and privacy and A Bit Not Good behaviour.

Sherlock aches for him. His wrist condemn him to it, really. If he had a choice, he would hate the doctor, like he does the rest of humanity. ( _Lie_ , teen!Sherlock, rebukes from his hideout, but the sleuth has long since learned to ignore the silly boy.) So the odd shadowing is honestly methadone to his addicted soul, wanting John (his – but clearly upset about it – John) 24/7.

Still, the man never ceases to puzzle him. He pretended not to know. Why would he? The sleuth’s name is unique enough. Irene might just suspect, at the moment, but there’s no way that his soulmate is unaware of his own status. So what was the goal, talking about Moriarty? Is John ashamed that someone – even the Woman, whom does not exactly belong to his circle – would know about their bond? Simple misdirection?

Or does his blogger (that, at least) truly, earnestly feel that whatever causes the names to appear in the first place has made a terrible error? That Sherlock would be best suited to a consortium with the one consulting criminal? He’s disappointed John. He’s well aware of this. But he didn’t think that he’d be judged on par with Jim effing Moriarty. He might be a bit not good sometimes… fine, let’s admit it, rather often… but he doesn’t go around blowing people up for the heck of it. Has John finally decided to believe Donovan’s bitter accusations? And if that is what he truly thinks of him, why would he stay in the flat? (Is he going to move out after this conversation? Oh please let him stay!)

Lost in his worries, the detective has managed to somehow walk back home – thank God that his mental GPS works without conscious effort, or he could have walked himself into the Thames, so inwardly focused he was. At the door, though, he snaps out of his misery. He wants nothing more than get on the couch and have a good sulk, but the door of the building has obviously been forced. Someone broke in their home.   

His mind flees once again to Moriarty, the only one to violate their abode until now. “Has John’s quip conjured him?” wonders his terrified teen self, bolting his own door more thoroughly from the inside. He scolds himself sharply and walks in. If anything, Moriarty is the one who’s not responsible for this. The last time, he managed to leave his little gift without offering any additional clue.

The more he sees, the more he wishes people would have at least standards. They touched Mrs. Hudson. Scared her, dragged her. An old, sweet, entirely too motherly lady. How _dare_ they? Even if these people have business with him, or John, or Irene, or maybe all three…why would they deduce that his landlady would be involved in whatever they are after? For crying out loud, she didn’t even get involved with her own husband’s drug cartel beside a bit of typing!

A quick warning left for John, Lestrade or whomever might happen upon his home while he’s busy, and he’s off like a bullet. They’re going to pay. He’s been hurt, and frustrated, for so long and without a way to vent that would not raise eyebrows about why he’s so cranky. At least these people will be good for working out a few negative emotions. They’ve attacked first. He’s protecting his home and his elderly, threatened lessor. Certainly the use of force is justified? Never mind Mycroft’s help to make charges disappear. None of his acquaintances would marvel if he should maim whomever broke in.         

He enters his flat affecting nonchalance, but he knows already what he’ll find, and he’s spoiling for a fight. Sure enough, it’s trouble that Irene attracted. The CIA idiot and two random goons. Three burly men to threaten and terrify a sweet (surprisingly resilient, which is the thing that will save their lives) old lady. Way too many for that, and still too few to handle him and John if they were both home. If they researched the least bit, they’d know that he has a number of martial arts qualifications from his uni days, and John…well, his army past is no secret, and only an idiot would underestimate him.  

Mrs. Hudson turns up the whimpering upon seeing him, and he shushes her up. Distracting her captors might be a good idea, but it’s not what he’s after now. Another look, to categorise exactly what has been done to her and who is the responsible. They drew blood! It makes his blood boil, and for once every last inch of him is in accord, and clamouring for murder. Fine, maybe not murder, Mycroft would ask too many favours to sweep that under a rug – and after all, if he does kill them their suffering will be cut short. A line he could have sworn he’d deleted flits through his head. “In my dominion death is a boon to pray for.” He starts scanning for targets. Everything he can damage to bring the man as close to death and in as much pain without actually finishing him. Soon. Very soon.  

The CIA operative (still for a short while) demands sternly what he wants, keeping his words vague. Since he says that they have interrogated Mrs. Hudson, for whose sake he’s being inexplicit is a mystery.

It’s a pity that John hasn’t yet come back. (And worrying, a voice inside of him whimpers, what if he’s so angry at being followed that he’s leaving?) Slamming a door on the nervous wreck inside of him, he works to take care alone of the present situation. He can solve his own problems by himself. He always did.

Still, taking on three probably armed people would be too much for him, no matter his martial arts certificates. Knowing one's limits is part of a good strategy. Which is why he demands the boss (the idiot one who touched Mrs. Hudson) to send his men away.

He has the upper hand, after all. For all they know, he’s the only one knowing the location of the blasted phone. And as careless with research as they’ve been, the sleuth doesn’t doubt that they’ve been ordered to solve this with a minimum of fuss, and not torture him. Mycroft does have contacts in the CIA, and he’ll have warned them not to go too far with his annoying little brother.

He could probably take two on, but he’s being merciful and sparing the ones who just followed orders and didn’t touch his landlady. Still, he’s snippy and arrogant and aims to humiliate and anger his opponents. Upset people make stupid errors.

Case in point, once he obtains compliance for his first demand, the remaining retard’s lack of imagination. He’s pitifully easy to take out, honestly. Not considering the chance of non-conventional weapons? Who does that? Just because one does not have a gun, it doesn’t make them any less potentially dangerous.           

No matter how much energy he burns into subduing the man, it’s over too quickly to be satisfying. He wants more of a workout. He might even issue a complaint to the man’s superiors. For the leader of a unit, the man is definitely subpar. How does the CIA get anything done? Maybe that’s the reason they’re involving Mycroft. His brother wouldn’t stand for such sloppiness in his men. He throws a last spiteful insult to the prone form of the not-so-operative anymore. It’s well deserved, after all. 

Now, priorities. Once the man can’t object or intervene anymore (at least for a handful of minutes, the sleuth doesn’t need to bind him), it’s time to take care of his not-housekeeper (really, his second mum). She’s been scared – if for herself or for him, he wouldn’t be able to determine. “For both, obviously," the brother in his mind remarks snidely.

Even if Donovan wouldn’t believe this, he knows how to be kind. Even tender, with people who deserve it, and his second mum definitely does. Once he’s sure that she knows she’s safe now, and that she’s not been scarred by the experience, he turns to his prisoner. He’s lucky. The sleuth’s landlady might be stronger than most, but if she’d been scarred by the experience – if Sherlock had to move out, because she didn’t feel safe living one floor from a man who attracts such visits on a semi-regular basis – the CIA agent would not survive their encounter.        

Before he can decide what the man has garnered with his actions, his musings are interrupted by his flatmate’s return. John has seen the warning, of course, and comes clearly prepared to fight. But one word – their enemy is subdued, trapped already, no help needed – and he switches to Caring Doctor mode immediately. Something in Sherlock _aches_. He knows that, if he were the one hurt, John would be patching him up with no less swiftness or tenderness. His flat(soul)mate has proved it time and time again. It’s entirely nonsensical to be jealous of the attention their landlady is getting, when he himself showered her with care a minute ago. He needs to pull himself together.

To do so, the easiest thing is to shift his focus. Box these daft feelings down in the basement and convey all his psychic trouble through sheer rage. He shoos the both of them away – after all, Mrs. Hudson will certainly be most comfortable in her own flat, and John needs to assess her condition further. She looked mostly fine to the sleuth, but he isn’t a doctor. He might, theoretically, have missed something (not that he believes he did).

With the distraction out of the way, it’s time to finally deal properly with Mr. CIA agent. Seriously, Mycroft should have taken measures to either warn him from the start or at least protect Mrs. Hudson; his brother is _useless_.           

Well, not entirely useless, no. He has at least taught his little brother how to best manipulate people and their feelings, even not counting sharing the mind palace technique – Sherlock maintains that he would have figured that on his own anyways. The consulting detective can make people sympathise with him. Wish to cooperate with him. But this is not what he needs now.

No, he knows that fear of pain is a kind of pain in itself – when one panics, but (trapped as his prisoner is) cannot defend himself. And the bastard deserves every bit of terror for how he’s treated Mrs. Hudson. The secret agent (secret - ah! as if what he is wasn’t painfully obvious; it’s ridiculous, really) thought nothing of the sweet old lady fear and pain. Well, the sleuth is going to teach him how it feels on the other side. Scared and helpless and, soon, in agony. Not that it will be nearly enough – the man should be trained to withstand this and worse, if their cousins haven’t entirely lost their minds.

Still – even if it will give him a shorter time for a proper workout – the detective feels a sick pleasure detailing to Lestrade the injuries the man can expect in a few minutes. He stares at his prisoner with disdain. Not funny being the victim, is it?

A thought almost distracts him. The detective inspector sounded way too alarmed by the news of the break in, as if he cared particularly about Baker Street, 221’s dwellers. That can’t be. Lestrade just uses Sherlock, doesn’t he? As anyone else. Oh well. Maybe he was concerned about losing his most sharp tool. Yes, that must be it.    

Now, about his prisoner… the house’s arrangement is particularly fitting. Because the window is just above the bins, and he’s dealing with human garbage, so he’s just doing what John and Mrs. Hudson bug him about every so often, really. Taking out the trash. In the most efficient way – which does not include taking the stairs. Not on the way there, at least.

Lestrade comes himself to Baker Street. The sleuth always knew that there was hope for the man as a detective yet. He hasn’t asked for the DI’s presence. He required ‘his least irritating officer’. After all, Sherlock is not his brother. He can’t summon people with a snap of his fingers – and sending a ‘persuasive’ means of transport.

The inspector could have sent anyone at all. But everyone else in his team – hell, probably everyone else in the Yard – refuses to show the consulting detective a minimum of respect while he’s doing their job for them… and for free. Imagine if Sergeant Donovan came over and found this particular crime scene.

The sleuth is in a bad enough mood today that he would be very much tempted to have her join the intruder in the bins, if she tried to put him behind bars for defending himself and Mrs. Hudson. No, Lestrade is smart in his own way. He’s waited long enough to answer his call to give his occasional colleague time to blow off some steam. Bless him.

Of course, he still has to do his work. Take a sort of a statement, at least. Which includes the details of the ‘fight’. The man is no medical professional, but he has seen enough crime scenes to know that one single fall from the window does not break a man apart like that.

True, the whole ‘lawful self-defence’ scenario cracks a bit once you drag an intruder back inside to throw him from the window again, and again. Still, they both know that a) Mycroft won’t let him go to jail if he can help it and b) nobody is going to press charges anyway, because the CIA doesn’t want to let it be known that they break in people’s homes and harass old ladies… only for their agents to end up totally trashed. Bad for their reputation.       

Which is why the detective waves Lestrade away with a vague answer, and why the officer actually accepts it. If anything, the lesson of the day is “You do _not_ touch Mrs. Hudson,” and that’s something that Sherlock doesn’t mind spreading around.      

With the CIA agent carted away and Lestrade off into the sunset – well, early night, actually – he has to face his flat(soul)mate and landlady (mum) again. So here he is, wiping his feet, because he’s already failed her and the last thing he wants is to invoke her wrath. He should have been protecting her, and instead he went tailing John even if he knows the man can take care of himself, because… well, because he wants to be close to the man All. The. Damn. Time. Sure, Mrs. Hudson is strong and resourceful – she survived her husband for years before they met – still, he should have been there.    

John is still in full Caring Mode, not that the sleuth can object to that. If anyone deserves to be the object of the gentlest of the doctor’s attention, it’s the just as kind Mrs. Hudson. Only, it appears that John doesn’t know her. He’s severely underestimating her strength, which is frankly insulting for the dear woman.

Sherlock discovers suddenly that he’s peckish, and he just serves himself from her fridge, sure that there will be no objection. Well, he’s peckish and he needs something to occupy his mouth before he goes and puts his mouth in it, like usual. There are things that are not his to share – not even with John, whom Mrs. Hudson regards as a second adopted son.

Groaning that she’s not in shock over a couple of scratches, of course not, because she survived beatings, and she didn’t seek anyone’s protection then, not until Sherlock stumbled on her porch, pretending to be looking for a dose but actually on the tail of a few interestingly mangled bodies. And even then, she didn’t play damsel in distress.     

So imagining that she won’t dare to sleep alone tonight – or that, for her health and peace of mind, she might need to seek refuge out of London at all, with her sister, is simply ridiculous. She can’t stand her sister on a good day, it’s obvious even if she never said it explicitly. Does John want to annoy her?

He needs to intervene promptly before his flat(soul)mate gets in Mrs. Hudson’s bad book. She’s perfectly capable of raising the rent if she thinks they’re belittling her. So, of course, he makes a random quip, and subjects himself to a kind, teasing lecture about what does not embody a secure hiding place.

Why would his dressing gown be a bad place? Does nobody know the principle of hiding in plain sight? Finding one mobile phone in one’s pocket, would you assume the owner of said pocket to be a third, unrelated party? Really. It was all planned.

Instead of arguing his point, though, he’s very happy to let be brought to light the expected revelation that their landlady sneaked Irene’s phone out of said pocket and hid it on herself while having a fake crying fit. She’s been having John on – understandable, really, the urge to play up on the good doctor’s caring instincts is very near irrepressible for anyone – and he hasn’t noticed.    

Seriously, they need to have the man taking lessons from the dear woman too. His blogger has seen the sleuth turn on the waterworks like a tap for one investigation. Where did he think Sherlock had learned? Did he blame that on the sociopathy? Oh, please. The stage lost a brilliant actress when Martha Hillwood was swept away from the dazzling Mr. Hudson.

“At least my monogram didn’t change,” she sighed once, “It made filling the bottom drawer much easier.” 

Now, though, is not the moment to start going down memory lane. Mostly because if they do, they’ll be there all night. The dear lady had a blessedly long life, and so many interesting anecdotes to share when she gets in the mood. (Obviously, sometimes they rate ‘interesting’ differently – she seems to have a rather hazy recollection of moments that would take whole rooms of his mind palace.)

So instead he praises Mrs. Hudson extravagantly, because her happiness is paramount, and besides, someone deserves to be happy today. Besides, it’s not entirely unwarranted – England depends on Mycroft to run smoothly, and the dear woman’s presence in Baker Street means that his annoying brother doesn’t have to put any of his energy into micromanaging his riotous sibling’s life. Being distracted by Sherlock’s sulks – that she never fails to at least try to soothe – would be disastrous for the British Government.

She insists to spoil them a bit, perhaps half in apology for duping John so fully, and they indulge her happily. Is John as afraid of being alone in the flat – no, not alone, with only his company – as he is? Breaking and entering has worked as a fine distraction, but what now? Do they need to confront their status? Will John bring up the matter of soulmates? Of why he thinks Jim fucking Moriarty is a better fit for him? Of what a sad error fate or God or the space particles or whatever is involved committed when they paired them up?

When they are forced to leave 221A (“Sorry, boys, nowadays I don’t really stay up until midnight… but you have fun!” with a too obvious smile), Sherlock can’t take it. He uses the excuse of having to keep the stupid phone safe to leave John on the threshold. Keeping it inside their home has only attracted their unwanted visitors. Very obviously leaving, he leads the people that are certainly still observing him in a merry chase around the city, offering them at last a dozen possible hiding places (and bringing it back with himself, because on his own person is clearly the only safe place for it at the moment).

He thinks for a moment of spending the night in a bolthole. But that would be useless. If John wants to have A Talk, they’ll eventually have a talk. Prolonging the inevitable will only ruin his nerves further.

When he gets home, John is nursing a drink, which is rare for him – what with his family history – but not unheard of. Still, if the man needs liquid courage, perhaps Sherlock should have taken advantage of his trip to stack on some of his addictive substance of choice.

Mercifully, John doesn’t start attacking him immediately. He makes… almost small talk, about the much coveted phone. The sleuth is vague enough not to invite further questioning, and decides to try and stave off The Talk with noise. Music, in this particular case. His violin is helpful for more than thinking aid.

To his surprise, (John always wrongfoots him; it’s scary – and delightful), instead of starting the Soulmates and Why it is A Bit Not Good, the blond inquires about ‘their’ feelings about the Woman’s survival. Feelings? What feelings? He’s … happy she isn’t dead (it would be a waste of a decent brain), frustrated that she felt the need to stir still waters (what business is it of hers?), but honestly, these are trifles. Almost all his feelings are busy rotating around John, obviously. And what does their even mean? Is John asking him to deduce his own feelings about her survival? Why would he need to?

Thankfully, the midnight sounds just then, so instead of facing a reply that could only prove unsatisfactory, the sleuth wishes him happy new year. People do that, don’t they?

His blogger apparently doesn’t feel the need to press the matter, the lack of answer an answer in itself. He has more thing to ask, though. If the sleuth will see her again. More and more puzzling. What is this obsession with the Woman? And what does John want him to answer? (He shouldn’t care about that – he can’t help doing so.)

Once again, he opts to sidestep talking about it. It is lucky that Auld Lang Syne is the traditional new year melody. He can pretend he’s being festive (as if he has any reason to be, but plausible deniability has long since become the linchpin of his existence), but truly, the lyrics should let John know all he needs to know. He doesn’t sing them. Of course not. That would be going too far – being too open. There is a chance that John misremembers them, and frankly, at the moment Sherlock is too confused to know if he wants to be understood or just shrugged off. This whole year has been too intense, too much and not enough, and he mildly wonders how he even survived the whole of it.

At last, John stops his questioning and ensconces in his chair. It is a relief, and really, that the mere, peaceful presence of the man can unwind every tense line in the consulting detective’s body and soul is a trick of biology he should be angry about if he wasn’t half-high on a sudden rush of endorphins now. He continues playing, swaying lightly, feeling suddenly very, very light.        


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclamer: still owning nothing

 

Well, there is one good consequence from the Woman’s return. Sherlock has stopped mourning, so John can claim his prize. God knows that the man needs to be fed a bit. When the sleuth, the first morning of the year, appears – fully dressed already, which is unusual for him – and announces that he’s going to Bart’s, because he needs to use their equipment, John raises an eyebrow. “Breakfast first,” he announces sternly.

                            

“But the case…” the sleuth objects, pouting, and it makes his blogger smile. This is just the regular consulting detective, who will protest against food on principle when his brain is occupied with something.

 

“You lost fair and square,” his blogger reminds him in a no-nonsense tone. “Food and drink was our terms, and your delay has expired.” That stops the sleuth in his tracks – it’s odd how sometimes the normally unruly man will comply when John simply states things – but it doesn’t get him seated to the table. The doctor could make a lengthy argument about why – especially after the week he had – food intake is paramount for his friend now. Instead, he only murmurs, “Please.”

 

At that, Sherlock sits down. “As you said, I did lose,” he acknowledges, the pout less prominent but not vanishing entirely. “Make it quick at least.”

 

John can’t help it. He chuckles. Someone overhearing them would think they’re discussing the consulting detective’s impending execution, not breakfast. “You’re in luck. Tea is already done. And I will be indulgent – no matter how much I’d like to, no full British fry-up today. Do you prefer honey or jam on your toast?” he asks.

 

“I thought that the point was for me to eat whatever you put in front of me,” the sleuth quips, with a lopsided grin.

 

“Honey, then,” John states, “Two slices, though.”. He’s taking into account his friend’s usual tastes. True, with his luck today will be the day the other craves jam, but judging from the light in iridescent eyes, he’s deduced correctly. Points to him. “And if you can’t make it home for lunch, because whatever analysis you’re running is still ongoing, text me. I’ll bring you something to snack on,” he demands, smiling, before the sleuth uses this loophole.

 

“I have a feeling I’ll have taken six pounds by the end of this week,” Sherlock remarks between bites, but without any heat.

 

“And you’d still be lean. But don’t worry, I’m not planning to turn you into foie gras. I’m a doctor. Trust me,” he replies. As if he could ever do anything to knowingly damage the man who has saved his life.           

 

“Always, John,” the detective agrees earnestly. The odd intensity of the moment is immediately broken, when he adds, scrunching his nose, “Your French pronunciation is atrocious, though.”

 

For a moment they laugh together, like teenagers. Then Sherlock gets up. “There. Eaten it all. And I really should get to Bart’s. You don’t want me to accidentally trigger something inside the mobile phone by trying to hack into it. Irene is nothing if not careful, look at her safe.”

 

“Definitely. If any explosions have to happen here, I’d rather them be entirely your own doing,” the blond declares, eyes still glinting in mirth.

 

“Not no explosions at all?” the consulting detective wonders, raising an eyebrow.

 

“If I did require that, I’d have moved out ages ago. Within reasonable limits, a few blasts are nothing I’m not used to. Just don’t go out of your way to supply them to me, please,” the former captain amends quickly, all too aware of how his flatmate might take his words.

 

“Duly noted, John,” Sherlock replies, nodding solemnly. “See you later.”

 

“Bye then,” the doctor responds, and he has to bite his tongue before tackling, “love,” to the end. That would be more than a bit not good. God only knows how the man would react. It’s only after the sleuth has disappeared, that John scolds himself for having forgotten to think things through.

 

The consulting detective is going to Bart’s. Which means Molly is going to be there. True, he could pretend – after all, it’s partly true (how much so? He would give so much to know the answer) – that it is only about a case.

 

But Molly is smart and sensitive, and completely smitten with his friend. She might deduce how rapt he is about the phone’s owner. She’s going to be hurt. And she doesn’t deserve that. John is tempted to text the sleuth in order to warn him to behave, but that would most probably be counterproductive. At least, the consulting detective never intentionally hurt her. 

 

It appears that he worried over nothing, luckily, because Sherlock doesn’t text asking why Molly’s upset, when he’s done nothing wrong. (That happened a couple of times.) Instead, he comes home in time for lunch, looking frustrated but not truly upset.

 

“What did you find?” John queries, while dishing out the pasta.

 

“Explosives, or acids, maybe…if I get the password wrong next time, we’ll be lucky if the phone is the only thing destroyed,” his friend huffs.

 

“Then you’ll just get it right,” his blogger says, faith in Sherlock as natural as breathing.

 

“I can’t. Not enough data, John. I figure out your computer’s passwords because you do not even try, and because I know everything about you. Or, well, most of it. I know next to nothing about her – but her measurements – and she is keen on her protection. Her password will not be 1234,” the detective grouses, among bites. 

 

“Hey, I never was quite that dumb!” the doctor protests, raising an eyebrow.

 

“I didn’t say that it was _your_ password. But a shocking amount of people think that is an adequate protection. The same that, when required longer passwords, write ‘password’, I’d assume,” the sleuth rants, scrunching his nose adorably.

 

“So what do we do? How do you acquire data?” John asks. It is for the case. Sherlock will do anything, sadly. Whether he does love Irene or not (he is the first to know that falling in love does not necessarily require a soulbond), they’ll see much more of her. They, because he refuses to send the man alone to deal with the dominatrix. He’s got drugged at his first attempt, for crying out loud! Someone needs to have his back.

 

“We don’t,” the consulting detective declares, with a little sigh of pleasure that derails entirely his blogger’s train of thought. “The phone is in our hands, and there can be no other copies, or she would not have the upper hand. We don’t need to open it. We just need to hold onto it. Sure, Mycroft will be aggravated at not getting the info inside it, but if nobody else can have them either he won’t protest overly much. No, now it is her move. She needs to come to get it, if she means to use its contents. Hopefully, in the process she’ll betray herself.”

 

“Oh well. We’re waiting, then. I am certainly not in a hurry to see her again. I’ve seen her once too much already, actually,” the blogger states, before realising where he’s accidentally led the conversation, by letting his annoyance bubble out. So he hurries to change subject. “Plans for the afternoon?”      

 

“Not anything definite. Molly didn’t have anything for me to play with, and Irene’s case has to go on the back burner, so…” Sherlock shrugs.

 

“You’re bored?” the doctor ends for him, dreading the answer, though a bored flatmate would be a definite improvement over a (perhaps – jury was still out, and could possibly remain there forever) heartbroken one.

 

“I’m… open to suggestions,” the sleuth retorts instead, with a smile.

 

This is not a come-on, John, get your mind out of the gutter. He’s half tempted to shake his head to physically remove the sudden flush of emotion. The man has refused him ages ago. No matter what insights Irene offered, and how many doubts are running rampant through him, nothing is going to suddenly change. The consulting detective does not do coy – unless he’s duping someone for a case. If he’d suddenly changed his opinion about them, he would be blunt.  

 

So, instead of the answer the blogger would offer anyone else that told him that with such a soft expression, he says, “What about a game? Not Cluedo, though.”  

 

The sleuth grins at him, and proposes, “Operation?”

 

“Oh come on. I have an unfair advantage there. If you insist, though… how much of a handicap do you want?” the doctor quips back. 

 

“Don’t brag too much – it’s not actual medicine, and if I can botch Cluedo, you might have a surprise now. Besides, I like being on an equal footing with you,” Sherlock warns him, moving to get the game (for some reason, their games collection is on the higher shelf).

 

His friend forgets that, beyond the surgical training, John had a lot of actual experience with the game. Still, he doesn’t win by a landslide, which is so much better. They have a happy, relaxed afternoon. God, but with everything that has happened lately, he’s missed this kind of leisure.

 

They truly put Irene on the back burner, and rather than angsting over her, they enjoy themselves. It’s almost as if they’d gone back in time. John experiments about what dishes make his flatmate sigh, in his allotted week, and uses the knowledge when it is most needed.

 

They take on different cases – which they usually don’t when one is already ongoing – and solve them on record time. John attempts, with varying success, to build his own mind flat. He discovers that lack of tension is paramount, and even if he’d swear that he’s not an anxious individual, it seems he’s too used to being utterly aware of his own surroundings to truly retire inside his own head. One way to circumvent this is meditate in the bath. Long, warm baths are the one luxury he will indulge in, and that he missed most during his time in the army. Sherlock is absurdly proud of his advancement in that, even if it is very far from his own palace.

 

John forgets Irene entirely. Her, her case, and her insinuations. If, indeed, his friend’s soulmate is alive, he’s happy for the sleuth. There’s a chance he might find the person who makes him happiest in the world. Being shot down and lied to so quickly is evidence enough that he is not this Sherlock’s soulmate anyway. Or that he is, and he truly is one of the unlucky few in an one-sided soulmate relationship. What is he supposed to do when his flat (soul?) mate finds his? It does not bear thinking about.

 

 Honestly, the only thing John can do – the only thing he could do anyway – is to enjoy the happiness being near the consulting detective brings him, and to try to reciprocate it by being as useful as he can. And stop dating, because that only ever seems to get in the way of the Work, and it never ends happily at any rate. No woman deserves to be made feel permanently second to the man the doctor can’t have. It took him a shameful long time to recognise all his girlfriends were right all along, but even he can understand things…eventually.

 

Surprisingly, Sherlock appears to get less sulky after that. Probably because he has less time to get bored, since his blogger is more often home, ready to distract him, rather than out on the prowl. Certainly, it is just that. They play more games – indulge in more bets, too, because John has discovered a secret delight in that. It doesn’t matter that he loses most of the time. With the sleuth’s utmost disregard for money in general, and the doctor’s not-so-tight anymore but not-stellar budget, they always bet information against chores anyway. What both really like.

 

For once, Sherlock has lost (he couldn’t determine what the last post on Anderson’s blog would be about, but – as he points out – only because his wife suddenly cottoned on to his repeated trysts), so he has to come along for the shopping. He doesn’t get them banned (the doctor was rather afraid it might happen, but he still insisted on his prize), but he’s still not ‘helpful’ in a standard way. John is stuck with all the bags, but the whispered deductions that make him laugh all along more than make up for that.

 

Back home, Sherlock runs ahead, like an eager puppy, and John sighs but follows at a more sedate pace. He doesn’t expect what he’s welcomed by, though. Finding a client waiting for them is not an entirely exceptional event, but said client helping himself to either of their bedrooms certainly is. Seeing the goddamned Woman sleeping angelically in Sherlock’s bed, John can’t control the clenching of his stomach. It was too good to hope she’d stay out of their lives. The one good thing is that she’s not naked, this time. (Why isn’t she? Honestly, as happy about it as he is, the doctor in him frowns at her slathering all the germs from her clothes in his friend’s bed.)

“What do we do?” he whispers, back in the sitting room.

 

“We let her sleep it off, for a start,” the detective replies, whispering himself, “unless _you_ want to be the one wake her up.”

 

Does he not dare ruin such a sweet sleep or has he developed a distaste for her after what she’s done to him? The blogger would give so much to know. Instead, he only shrugs, agreeing without words.

They just ignore her for a couple of hours more – after all, they’ve forgotten she existed for months –John surfing the web, looking at cats video because he needs a way to unwind, while Sherlock runs away for an unspecified ‘errand’, with an instruction not to let her leave.

 

The former army surgeon almost hopes that she will wake up and decide to depart, as improbable as it is after she helped herself to the sleuth’s bed. Be the one forced to do something she doesn’t want – he has  no doubt that he can subdue her – might teach her not to peek at people’s soulnames, drug them or otherwise behave like a brat at best.

 

Instead she sleeps like an angel until the consulting detective is back, and then – almost if sensing that – the Woman comes out from the bedroom… only to ask for a cup of tea, yawning and still somehow sexy, and after that, inform them that she’s going to shower. Inform. Not ask. Not that John would deny it to her, but didn’t anyone teach her manners?     

 

She finally emerges, only apparently (he’s sure) carelessly provocative, having ‘borrowed’ Sherlock’s dressing gown – once again – without asking, (not that John’s would fit her). She’s dillydallied and imposed on them enough, it seems, and mentions the case that led her here.

 

How she expects even the world’s only consulting detective to solve it with the lack of details she provides, though, it’s a mystery. Killers want to kill her? Hell, by the most literal of definitions, the blogger would fit in the category too. He wouldn’t, not really; not if his flatmate loves her, or even only wants her. But she played with his emotions, and John might forgive and forget what he goes through, but he won’t ever forget when people abuse his dear ones.

 

Then again, she doesn’t want her case ‘solved’, does she? She just wants the detective to obey her. As if. John doesn’t know, of course, but he suspects that his flatmate might not even have obeyed his own mother. He’s forced Irene’s hand until she’s come personally to get her own phone back, finally acknowledging that she can’t manipulate John – or anyone else, it wouldn’t surprise him if she’d tried her wiles on Molly, too – to swipe her mobile phone for her.

 

Now, certainly, the sleuth will not agree with her request. She can ask. She can beg. She’s been demoted from ‘fascinating woman’ to ‘piece of the puzzle’. At least, the doctor dearly hopes he has. Being tricked in such a way should be enough proof that she doesn’t deserve an ounce of his admiration, shouldn’t it?  

 

The detective does remind her of her hoax, but he doesn’t sound hurt, or outraged. Like he really doesn’t feel anything for her anymore ( _good,_ John thinks viciously to himself). He mostly appears…puzzled. Why would the dominatrix choose to get back for something that endangered her life, when she could have left it and the threat behind and started a new leaf? What’s so precious about it? (Nothing, the blogger suspects – she just likes to play with people a bit too much.)                              

  

Thank God Sherlock does not give into her demands. He doesn’t have it, he claims; it’s in a bank. And then, suddenly, the doctor thinks about ‘lack of data’ and realises that she’s been hanging around only to get her possession. His friend needs more time to deduce her entirely – after all, the woman is not simpleminded – but he won’t get it if she storms away now, in a huff at being denied. How satisfying it would be to give it back to her… open, and maybe wiped clean for good measure. Which is why John starts babbling about a most complicated strategy through which they could get the  damned phone. Things that will require time. Time that the consulting detective can use to figure her out.

Sherlock compliments his plan, and the blogger squashes down the bubbling feeling of pride and happiness. He can’t allow himself to get distracted when Irene is around – she’s dangerous. Oh well. Seconds later, and *his own* mood is in no danger to absorb him. He should have known. It’s not the first time it happens, and not even only to John.

The sleuth will politely reply to any offer of input – even solicit it sometimes, probably in an effort to teach people proper deduction technique. But he never accepts another’s plan. It’s not that he’s arrogant. It’s – mostly – that they don’t see a quarter of what he observes and accounts for.

This time, though, the ‘different course of action’ is worrying John. Because Sherlock smiles, and*gives her the bloody phone*! (Which was _still_ in his dressing gown, seriously!) Mycroft might have something to object to that, wouldn’t he?

And honestly, why comply with her requests? It’s not even a question of national safety anymore – not for John. It’s a question of annoying the woman as much as possible to punish her for her misdeeds against his flatmate. But no, apparently they’re not doing that. Has the sleuth fallen in love with her? Is the phone a little token, just to show he aims to please? God, the blogger is fighting the urge to gag at the thought. He’d been convinced that there was nothing between them – not with the consulting detective ignoring her for so long. But the doctor always misses everything of importance, doesn’t he?

John might not be a genius, but all these thoughts and – fine, mostly feelings – flash in his head, knotted like a ball of too-spiky yarn, in the few seconds between his friend handing her phone (well, a phone) over and her punching  a code in. He should never have doubted Sherlock.

It’s a fake! A duplicate of her mobile phone, not the actual one. Not an offer of loyal submission, because of – love? – but yet another trick of the world’s only consulting detective and self-proclaimed high functioning sociopath. Not that the doctor agrees with that diagnosis – it makes little sense in modern terms anyway – but Sherlock’s smug grin when he punches the pin code into the actual phone makes something clench in John’s stomach and want to kiss it right off his lips.

Not that the detective would appreciate it. Irene might, though. Or at least understand the message John’s brain is clamouring to send. “Back off. You said he isn’t yours – and you played with him and hurt him, so you lost all rights to his affections, if you ever held them. Mine, you bitch. My flatmate at least, and my friend, which – soulmate (possibly alive, but John does not trust her) and family notwithstanding, is more than anyone else can claim about Sherlock Holmes. That has to count for something.

But of course she’d see through such a trick. She’s smart, as much as John would like it to be the opposite. Smart and dangerous, which seems to be exactly the world’s only consulting detective’s type. John fleetingly wishes that his friend’s penchant was for something much more pedestrian – like, say, big boobs, or arses, or whatever. At least, John wouldn’t have to worry for his life (Sherlock’s life, of course, not his own – he’s never minded that) every time his friend gets that bewitched look in his eyes.

The ‘happy couple’ has moved from sharing compliments to sheer eyesex. He shouldn’t mind that. Sherlock has every right – soulmate or not – to find someone to love. But why someone who would tie him up, photograph him, use him, AND possibly drug him? Bloody Christ.

So, it is not jealousy, truly. It is…concern that urges him to break he atmosphere. He needs to remind Sherlock that she’s bad news – and that sometimes, he misses things. Worse than that, sometimes he cannot read the truth, even when he’s invested in finding it. Much less if he lets fascination get in the way. 

So John blurts out his middle name. His hated, ridiculous middle name. He tacks a stupid, ridiculous, bitter excuse to it, but it works. They both look at him, and hopefully Sherlock’s brain will reboot, and be reminded both of his occasional failure to deduce and of how miserable she’s made him about the time of their bet.   

Sherlock’s head swivels towards his flatmate. What is the meaning of this? Seriously, does John think that distracting him while he’s busy trying to trick someone as smart as him, and that he cannot bloody deduce? As if his work isn’t hard again.

Sharing his middle name with Irene…why? Is she worth of knowing it? Why would she? Baby names… that is a joke, isn’t it? It must be. Or does his soulmate want him to have babies with the dominatrix? Has he forgotten that women are very much *not* his department? Does John want kids, and he’s decided that Irene’s genes are nice? Heirs? Is that why Sherlock has been deemed an inadequate mate? If it was so, should he want his own genes to be the ones passed down?   

No, no… concentrate on Irene. He’s working. Supposed to solve this case. Open the damn phone. Find another way. Oh God, she’s just opened it – true, she took pains not to be visible, but if the consulting detective hadn’t been distracted, he could have observed some detail that would give him the solution _right now._

If he does fail this time, it’ll be all fault of John’s lousy timing. No, he can’t pin blame on John with Mycroft. It is his own brain which can’t sort priorities. Weak. Pitiful. Besides, Mycroft’s solution to his problem would be to remove the disturbing factor. His soulmate might not accept him fully, but not even sharing the flat anymore is not something he wants to contemplate. If he does, he needs his brain back online and working now, though. Come on! He can’t allow to dawdle on his blogger’s thoughts and feelings. He’s on a case!

Turns out, he’s on more than one. The reason Irene came to him is to have him deduce things for her. Sure, things she has no business knowing in the first place. If people under the influence of pleasant hormones in the brain didn’t become entirely useless, they would have kept their mouth shut. But he supposes a huge part of the power exchange dynamic is wanting to please your Dom (fine, he might have done some tiny bit of research – for the case, obviously) and the combination of both instincts is deleterious for state secrets.

She should have known that no code analyser could work efficiently when the majority of their blood flow was redirected away from the brain. Still, it is disappointing to know that she, too, sees no utility in him past whatever use she has for his brain. Not that he wants her to desire him. God, no! He can’t give her anything on that side, after all…and not (just) because he’s been saving himself for John.  But being no more than a breathing Turing machine, insert data, wait for output of result (and the wait better not be long!), all the time…well, unless the data inserted are particularly stimulating, it becomes frustrating soon.

Of course, she tries to dangle a reward in front of him – motivation, as it were. The fact that she cannot ask him what he wants (not used to listening to people’s wishes, is she?), and instead just follows her usual patterns, is disappointing. She’s standing too close, unnecessarily so, and honestly, there’s no need to breath instructions into his ear. He can hear just fine, thank you very much, and if she just let him see the phone and retired to the other side of the room, he would be more comfortable. And _kissing_? True, it’s his cheek, but when did he explicitly allowed her to kiss?

Before he can turn and viciously chide her, she’s asking to be impressed. That’s an idea! Not her, of course, who cares about her. But John likes his deductions feats. Maybe he can earn some praise. He has to be extra bright, of course. Thankfully, the mysterious ‘code’ is rather straightforward. Honestly, he needs to tell Mycroft to up his requirements if his cryptographers need their whole brains to figure that out. He suspects that, even with blood flow to the brain severely restricted, he’d take a minute tops to discover the meaning of this.

As it is, barely a handful of seconds later he’s spewing out the supposed state secrets. Of course, he’s ignoring her outright. It’s not for Irene that he’s doing this. It never has and will never be for her sake that he performs. Genius might ache for an audience, but since the first, soft-spoken ‘amazing’ that the world’s only consulting detective’s intended audience has a full name. It might be because they’re soulmates. It might be a weird sort of imprinting, though the sleuth doesn’t like to think of himself as a baby duck.    

But if he is now – he suspects – much like a dog having performed a trick and wagging his tail madly, in wait for the promised treat, it’s not just anyone’s approval that he wants. Come on. He just solved this in under ten seconds. Surely that deserves some kind of acknowledgment? He shows the alphanumeric string to John, walking him through the solution and proving he’s not cheating. It should be obvious, truly. Still, his soulmate keeps silent.  It’s galling! 

Maybe he needs a bit of prodding. John can be rather oblivious. Perhaps he thinks Sherlock is looking forward to _Irene_ grading his performance, despite the fact that the detective has disregarded the woman intruding obnoxiously on his peripheral vision. Fine, they can play that way, if his soulmate want to.

Which is why – using the deep tone of voice the web agrees is the most seductive one, because he needs John to pay attention to him (the thing the man has made him look up, honestly!) – he airily tells her not to bother congratulating his deduction. Because John already expressed that in every single variant of the English language.

Come on, for someone who considers himself a writer, it’s practically a challenge! John is in front of a bloody computer. It should take him no more than thirty seconds to realise he has not yet used ‘stunning’ in relation to me. It might be intentional, because of the secondary meaning of aesthetical beauty. But annoying Irene by showing that there’s something she can’t have – in this case, my interest in whether she is impressed or not by his deductions – should be prompt enough for the doctor to (hopefully) use the word.

Nothing still! Seriously, the consulting detective knows that his ‘trick’, as Sebastian would say, his deduction shows, could grow stale rather quickly. But surely this one enactment deserves some sort of recognition. “Under ten seconds, John!” teen Sherlock whines – thankfully still trapped inside the mind palace, it would never do for his words to slip through his lips – “What does one need to do to get a bravo?”

It seems the woman, too, is growing frustrated with the lack of response from her intended target. Well, she can join the club. While Sherlock is being subtle – well, as subtle as he can while hopefully garnering some attention – she’s horribly crass. And cliché. He’s not a client, it would do her well to remember that.

Beg? She thinks she can get him to beg? He’s not begged _John_ yet – and not for lack of wanting, just because it would be useless (would it?). Irene has nothing he wants. Of course, there’s the phone’s pin, but that is something _Mycroft_ needs – and his brother can be the one to do the begging, if it ever comes to that. Being a politician, he’s probably used to that anyway.  

He rebukes her curtly (he’s not alarmed by her…not even subtext anymore at this point, just annoyed) and does his best to keep John, instead, involved in the case. After all, cases are what the both of them delight in. And sure enough, once he manages to ignore the distraction caused by the arrogant dominatrix, his blogger is there to help him out. True, John seems rather puzzled by the proceedings – as if he expects Sherlock to pay more attention to the woman than to the little enigma that landed on their lap – but he’s cooperative.

And he solves this case for Sherlock. Well, not overtly, of course, but when things fall into place in the mind palace it is only because John exists. And because he insists on silly things like sharing his love of all things ‘classic’. Pop culture classic do not deserve the adjective classic, the sleuth would argue, but it’s easier to just make him happy – ultimately, it makes the detective happy too, by reflex, no matter how ridiculous and plot-holes filled these things are. Without blogger-enforced movie nights, he would have never made the connection between flight 007 and Mycroft’s muttered Bond Air.         

It does take him hours to do that, and he fully expects to be teased for that. If John paid attention to Mycroft (which he’s rather happy his soulmate doesn’t, too many people hang off his brother’s every word already), his blogger would have taken no more than five second to figure that out.

And how low has he stooped, that he looks forward to John laughing and reminding him that pop culture is not entirely useless, after all? If he can’t earn praise, no matter what he does, he’ll take the mocking – for some reason, John is never vicious as he’s grown to anticipate from people. To believe it is his due.  

To his defence, the phone call he’s overheard from his brother was in a temporary file, this close to deletion. Honestly, it already would have been if Mycroft weren’t his client in this particular occasion. 007 movies, instead, are in the John wing, with all the apparently silly things his soulmate likes and that he will never, ever be able to delete – not even should he develop brain damage, he suspects. As far from each other as possible, truly.

Figuring out the next step – Coventry – is much quicker. The Coventry episode – whether it really happened or not – is one of Mycroft’s favourite bit of trivia, proving as he believes his ‘caring is not an advantage’ motto. If someone had cared for Coventry’s people enough to consider saving them a priority, the war might have ended differently. Sherlock could see his point, but usually he stopped paying attention to the story after the fun decoding bits.   

He can’t be certain John would know that, though, so perhaps it is a good idea to stop working it out inside his mind palace and talk aloud. What he finds out it’s a shock to the system – a brutal cold shower. John is…not…here?

The sleuth can’t help but feel deeply betrayed. It’s a thing for his flatmate to pop to the shops, or go to work, or whatever, when Sherlock is deep in his mind palace, dead to the world, and they are alone. But they’re not now. Irene Adler is right there.

Irene Adler, whose record has drugging him against his will, hitting him with a bloody riding crop, and admitting aloud multiple times, in John’s presence, that she wants to own him – mould him into her meek plaything. His soulmate can’t possibly have forgotten all that.

The consulting detective had felt safe enough to slip inside his mind palace because his blogger was right there – him and his gun. Sherlock had believed that John would never allow the dominatrix to hurt him. If the woman tried anything untoward, she’d be as dead as the serial killer cabbie.   

But apparently his unconditional trust – the very same trust he blames on their soulmate status messing with his mind – was misplaced. Not only John does not think anything of leaving him alone and helpless with her. He’s been ‘helpful’ enough to _point it out to her_ that the detective would be oblivious to what was going on around him. Vulnerable, in case she wanted to take any initiative. Did he wink at her when he left? Sherlock’s stomach rolls at the mental image.

Truly, it is amazing that he woke up in the same situation he slipped into his mind palace. She could have tied him to his bed. She could have drugged him again and have someone in her power carry him away to God knows where. And it would have been with John’s approval. Why hasn’t she? Probably because catching him in this situation did not even rate as a one in her book. 

Sherlock can’t help but wonder, afraid. He might be as far from perfect as he could possibly be, but does he really deserve all that? Apparently, the answer is yes. He should learn to accept that. 

Suddenly, explaining to Irene the whole Coventry affair feels like a weak ray of hope. The only hypothesis he can hold onto not to lose every last shred of faith in his soulmate. (Why does that prospect hurt so much? It’s not fair.) Knowing something bad is going to happen, but letting it happen anyway.

Is this John playing the game? Does he expect her to betray her secrets, possibly, in a post-coital situation? According to the dominatrix, people seem to have the worst time in keeping secrets in such a scenery. It is common knowledge that Sherlock has little boundaries – especially when it allows him to solve a case. Maybe his blogger has figured out that the sleuth will take one for the team, no matter how uninterested in women he is. Hell, John probably thinks he should like it and be grateful for the occasion.

From an objective standpoint – as far as classically proportioned features go, shine of her hair, and other significant traits – the sleuth can even admit that the woman is beautiful, and if one is into that, he has no doubt that she deserves her high wages. But the consulting detective is not interested, and can’t possibly be.

John seems to have missed the point – Sherlock will indeed do almost anything for a case. But he’ll sham his way through it. Present a façade. Making himself truly vulnerable is not and has never been anticipated.

Apparently Irene too thinks the both of them entertaining themselves in his flatmate’s absence is par for the course. Maybe it’s not even a question of owning him. He really shouldn’t flatter himself, she has her own soulmate after all. At best, he’s a passing fancy to her. An itch to scratch. Maybe, she’s just happy that he solved that little puzzle for her, and sex is the way she’s used to reward people. (Seriously, he’d expect a bit more creativity from her).                             

It’s the only reasoning that can explain her invasive questions about his sexual history (or lack of it – what did she do, chat with Mycroft?). She probably doesn’t think anything of it. A new doctor will ask for your anamnesis. A high-profile escort with a new client – especially one that’s used to leading the game like Irene, rather than doing what she’d done when she’d done – will ask for sexual history, kinks and preferences. She aims for repeat customers. Overwhelmed or – God forbid – traumatised ones won’t come back.

Thankfully the sleuth is able to keep his wits and analyse the situation coolly – honestly, this is becoming more awkward and uncomfortable by the second. Usually, faced with unwanted advances, he would deduce the hell out of the idiot until they ran away in tears. This is impossible now, not only because the woman is frustratingly inscrutable, but because even if he could, he doubts that Irene would be ashamed of anything she’s done. She looks like a woman rather at peace with her own choices. 

So he’s forced to do something he honestly despises. He never minds much playing a role for a case, but he does detest playing dumb. Still, it’s exactly what he does. The dominatrix is being the most clear she can possibly be without being entirely crass and/or drawing him a graph. His answer to her questions is, “I don’t understand,” all the same. True, he could go for, “None of your damn business, lady,” which would have the perk of being sincere. But he’s still unsure of what the plan is – what is truly expected of him (what if he misunderstood everything?) and if he can avoid disappointing everyone as always. Chasing her away now might be counterproductive.

At least she has enough common sense to adjust her approach when people do not react favourably. Sadly, her change is making him even more deeply uncomfortable. When has he given her permission to get in his space? True, she’s kneeling – a position she’s certainly not used to be in – but she’s touching him.

Sherlock is hard-pressed not to violently extricate himself from her touch. She might look meek now, but he knows that he should expect hurt and betrayal. Irene’s body language might telegraph all sorts of contained, docile lust. But he will not believe a sleeping tiger is a harmless kitten. Not even if it appears to be offering you her belly. Be stupid enough to try petting her, and she’ll eviscerate you.

Besides, at first he was unable to deduce her. Whatever he believes he can perceive from her could very well be an act meant to lead him astray. Thinking that she can suddenly become transparent just because she put on some clothes would be more naivety – really, more idiocy – than even Anderson would abide. He does go through the moves, though – acquiring data automatically even if he will not trust his own interpretation of them without more evidence. If he has to endure her touch, might as well get something out of it.

She accompanies the physical crowding with more veiled offers, keeping to the food metaphor she’s so inexplicably partial to. The detective indulges her choice – one small thanks for not taking advantage of his vulnerability – but still makes it clear as possible that he is not interested. Not in any sort of physical contact.

To his shock, her only comment is, “Good.” If his disinterest encounters her approval, why in the name of everything that’s logic does she insists with her advances? He’s solved her puzzle. She already has her bloody soulmate. At best, she wants him the same way she craves a snack, if her metaphors have any reason. Surely it’s not worth to exert so much stubbornness on him? What are her motives. He’d give something to discover that.       

The only thing he can do is try to puzzle out her behaviour by the data he has. And they are confusing. She’s evoking an end of the world scenario as a possible occasion for them to ‘have dinner’. But it’s not the end of the world. Even if he were inclined to acquiesce to people’s last wishes, nothing now requires it… or does it? Is she _implying_ something?

She has her soulmate, he has his (well, not has, but has found, anyway). Are her words a veiled threat? A warning? Your world is about to crash and burn, and I might be the only one you can turn to, so you better make me happy? Or is she considering them equals? Both our soulmates are in the crosshairs because of us and could soon be dead, so the best option is for us to team up to protect them… Or maybe ditch them, so that whoever is after us won’t bother with them, and well, if we’re already together, might as well have fun.    

Which one is the right interpretation? Or maybe none of these is? And why for Pete’s sake does the dominatrix think that being sexually explicit is the best course, but being open in her plans is a sin? Does she suspect Mycroft to have his little brother’s home bugged? Or does she know that he is under some other type of surveillance? Moriarty’s message *was* in the house just across the street… Should he reassure her? Worry? Ask for an explanation? (Not that she would unless under duress, he suspects.)

He’s always been good at manipulating people. Extracting information, if he needs to. But Irene befuddles him, and right now his brain is pulling itself apart, unable to concoct a plan of action. The fact that he’s low-key worrying over John – even after what could be called his soulmate’s betrayal (the one he tries to make excuses for) – is further rendering him unable of work.   Oh God. Mycroft was right all this time. Soulmates will only ruin your life.

Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson intervenes before he can do something supremely stupid. Like ask what she means, and so admit that he really has no idea what she’s playing at. Irene already holds enough cards in her dainty hands. She needs not to be aware of how much superior to his her position is in this moment. True, she probably knows anyway, but she can’t be sure. That would mean underestimating her opponent, and people who do that die for real, instead of staging it.

The dominatrix is obviously disappointed, but the sleuth’s brain is feverishly wondering if this is indeed chance. If John instructed their landlady after a set time, so that Sherlock would have enough time to seduce the secrets out of her (in his opinion) but not so long that, if she took her chance and tried to hurt him, she could do serious damage. After all, he doesn’t know when his flat(soul)mate left. It could have been five minutes before he left his mind palace. Three, even. 

He’s deluding himself, isn’t he? Mycroft would be disgusted. If anyone has arranged for this to happen, it’s probably not his soulmate. And certainly not because of _care_. Who would care for him, anyway? He’s… himself. People can’t stand him. Certainly they don’t go out of their way to protect him unless they have a public image to maintain that would be damaged if it was known they stood aside while he was hurt, or his incapacitation would inconvenience them in some other way.

So why would he fabricate theories where John is looking out for him, when the only evidence he has – heaps of it, the newest data only reinforcing what he knows since months ago – is unanimously pointing at the opposite? It has always been a cornerstone of his method not to theorise without all the data, exactly because manipulating facts to adapt them to preconceived hypotheses is how one is led astray and comes to false conclusions. And he’s now throwing away so many pieces of evidence to believe a theory founded on only half a clue? At the very least he should see what Mrs. Hudson wants. But the truth is, rather than bounding down himself and check, he’d rather wait for her to come up to complain to him – and with her hip, too! – only because he’s not in a hurry to be forced to discard that daydream. God, he’s pathetic.      


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing

So, counting his blessings: Mrs. Hudson saved him from what was going to be a very awkward, possibly disturbing conversation with Irene. And he’s being delicate, because actually, she seems determinate to push any boundaries he might set.

Not that he thinks she would really act nonconsensually – she wouldn’t have bothered asking, over and over and over. She would have seized her chance the moment John left. Still, there is a feeling that – like Moriarty, if one thinks about it, that might be why he’s so nervous – she will not accept a no indefinitely. He wants to ask her questions. But not when she’s leading the dance.

That seems to be the only plus of the day, though, because the landlady’s interruption does not come from an instinct to offer tea, or maybe some freshly baked scones. She’s announcing a visitor, Another very unwelcome guest, and John is not even back from his stroll to help him deal with the man.

Seriously, doesn’t Mycroft know better by now than send his goons to handle him? He doesn’t want to obey his brother’s summons – certainly not so soon – but as always Mycroft, even absent, has ways to make him bend to his will. An international flight ticket - is Mycroft threatening to exile him? No, wait, specifically, it is a ticket for the very same flight Sherlock deduced not long ago. Something involved in one of his brother’s secret service games, then. Is he expected to participate in some capacity? (He won’t of course, not until he’s solved the John Puzzle). Still, he needs to tell as much to the British government in person.   

He tries to sound Mycroft’s man, because from what he deduced, this is Coventry’s game all over again. His brother knows of a threat to the flight...and he’s going to let it happen. Or isn’t he? They have their own differences, but he doesn’t think that his brother would want him dead, even in a way he could pass as accidental. After all, his brother hates legwork. Until he can work on Mycroft’s cases every now and then, his own utility should still be greater than the annoyances he causes.

Or is this a variation on Coventry? Maybe a terrorist will be on the flight, and he’s supposed to be on the plane and stop him. Does Mycroft truly think that he can pass such a thing as coincidence? “Sorry for you, but see, we didn’t stop your man from getting on board. If we were aware of his plans, we would have certainly arrested him at the airport. The fact that the world’s only consulting detective was on the very same plane, and possibly seated right next to him, was nothing more than unlucky chance.” Nobody can stupid enough to believe that, can they? At least not if they have enough synapses to plan such an attack.

The goon doesn’t bat an eyelid at his wonderings (not that he explains it all – just enough to cause a reaction, he thought). Mycroft taught him well. It’s so frustrating! Oh, and speaking of goons – there’s a familiar face at the airport, guarding his plane.

There’s a bit of him that regrets seeing the man – a ugly thing that says he should have maimed permanently, so that he could never go back to work (oh, but Mycroft would have been miffed at having to smooth that down for him). But seriously, hurting a sweet old lady for information? That’s beyond cruel – that’s wasteful. Case in point: his landlady still smuggled the phone to safety. The Americans seem to solve all issues with brute violence.

Sherlock is not at all a strict pacifist – but there’s a time and a method for everything. Sponsored serial killers? He won’t shy away from sharpening the agony of a dying man, because *these* information might save people. Gossip and pillow talk, though possibly state secrets pillow talk? If they knew he had it, they also knew  - or should have – that he wasn’t interested in the contents. If they’d just inoltrated proper request to Mycroft, his brother might have annoyed him into giving it up without having solved the password conundrum, as much of a slight to his pride as that was.

The man is sincere, which the sleuth appreciates. Death threats are nothing new, really, something to look forward to if the CIA bloke wasn’t so uninspired. The agent is respectful, too, which amuses Sherlock to no end. For a moment, he suspects he understands his brother’s passion with politics – receiving niceties from people you hate and that heartily reciprocate must tickle his funny bone. That the operative thinks he might be given a pass – no, a reward – for ridding the world of him, even while he knows he has to pay his respects, it’s a puzzle. But never mind that. He has a bigger puzzle at hand – and Mycroft won’t appreciate dillydallying.       

The plane is...surprising. Considering that everyone on board is dead, having a ticket sounds rather ominous. But his brother wouldn’t, would he? Whatever Sherlock’s done, they’d go through exile to Antarctica or something or the sort first. The detective hopes, at least. Hell, he’s beaten up that CIA dude, but he hasn’t even killed him. As for the one who died at Irene’s...it was his fault for not getting out of the way of the bullet, wasn’t it? He hadn’t even put up the trap, just triggered it – on their orders, mind.

Oh, no, thankfully all his brother wants is to show off. The perfect solution to the Coventry dilemma. It is mildly clever, Sherlock admits in the privacy of his mind – not aloud, because the fat git is already teasing him for not piecing it together on his own when he got so many clues. (He’s right, of course, but there’s no need to gloat – it’s in bad taste.)

Then again, since his solution – all neat and pretty – has apparently been ruined, maybe the gloating is Mycroft’s way of coping. Sherlock very much does not appreciate being made to feel as the slow one (again). So he gleefully mocks back, because honestly, Mycroft is supposed to be the one with the people skills, and if his brother can’t see that someone is likely to betray every state secret as soon as a bit of oxytocin is running through him, maybe he’s not much better than the sleuth at deductions.

Only the bloody British Government snaps at that, because the fault does not lie with Irene’s client, but... with Sherlock himself? Wait, that can’t be right. (Besides, _he_ doesn’t even have the oxytocin excuse). The sleuth would protest that he’s not done anything for Irene, he couldn’t care less for Irene, he was playing for John’s entertainment – if he didn’t know that would only attire more spite, and the Woman does not need to hear that. As long as she thinks she has a hold over him, she will underestimate him, and that’s always desirable in a foe. (Also, why the fuck is Mycroft quoting Moriarty? He files that for further consideration.)  

Still, underestimating is a thing, ignoring and disparaging is something else. He’s here – to be reprimanded, apparently – but the players are Irene and his brother. She thinks she has the upper hand. That she can blackmail Mycroft, of all people. Because otherwise Sherlock will be outed as a breach in security? It would be a scandal, certainly. Not Mycroft’s end, though. Not if he drops his little, stupid brother, who can’t help but deduce-flirt in the presence of untrustworthy people, like the hot potato he is. After all, even his own soulmate abandoned him to the care of the Woman. Why should family be different? Mycroft certainly can exile him. Or trap him in some dungeon, never to be heard of anymore. That should restore any damage done to his career. As for him...possibly, being permanently separated from John would stop his obsession with the man, and how to gain his approval. (Yes, Sherlock realises that he’s messed up for considering that a favourable outcome.)

He’s honestly surprised when Mycroft drags him along while he relocates to deal with the Woman more comfortably. Though the British government wants him under his vigilant eye to ensure he does not accidentally tip off any more terrorists while Irene is dealt with. The sleuth wants to pout. It’s not like he did it on purpose.

Instead, he just ensconces himself in an armchair by the fire (not his – not nearly as comfortable) and pointedly sulks and ignores the mental minuet going on behind his back. He only speaks when talked to, which he’s never done, not even as a child. But he doesn’t even mind the depth to which the dominatrix used him. Not just for the code, but to prove to Mycroft that her phone is impregnable.

All along, while he thought he was working on a case – for Mycroft, to amuse Irene, but most of all, to impress John and make him smile – he was playing in her hands instead, and after he’s explained his findings he can be thrown with other useless trash like him.

Honestly though, that Mycroft is seriously considering torture makes him lose all respect for his brother. The practice in itself is notoriously bad in obtaining any information of importance. It’s not barbaric (well, it is, but that’s not the main reason everyone sensible should drop it). It’s _impractical_. And the British government should know and have better persuasive methods at his disposal. Besides, threatening a _dominatrix_ with torture? It wouldn’t surprise Sherlock if Irene gave her interrogators technical pointers, in case Mycroft was daft enough to go through with it.

She has all her requests ready, and Sherlock is listening only with one ear, part of him actually wondering where the hell John is and why Mycroft even thought he needed to be present for the negotiation, it’s not like he has anything the woman wants... (Well, that’s not strictly true, she mentioned being tempted to own him, but Mycroft is not going to have him collared and hand her the leash just to cover his precious secrets...is he?)         

Then his attention is suddenly piqued. Moriarty. Behind all of Irene’s games, there’s Jim Moriarty. (The man has no idea what love is, how can he send any?) The consulting criminal has been harassing Mycroft, who seems ready to snap. It explains why his brother would quote Jim, and still...the sleuth doubts that Moriarty’s attentions have really changed object. (He wouldn’t mind. Jim and Mycroft can get married, for all he cares...until he puts the first behind bars, at which point he supposes his brother would divorce the man.)         

That she would like Jim, is no wonder. That Jim has deduced details about the both of them, and uses that spitefully (there’s nothing to sneer at, both Holmes brothers are proud of what they are) just shows how unworthy the man is. But the consulting criminal’s involvement suddenly makes this case take on a whole different level of paramountcy.

Until now, it was a game. An exercise in showing off. And yes, a way to investigate things entirely different from the blasted blackmail material, if only Irene had been less aggressive and more open to discourse. With Moriarty involved, John’s absence from 221b stops being hurtful and starts being terrifying. Not that the soldier could be abducted from under his nose without jolting him out of his mind palace. Still, he needs to see John now – and for that, this stupid situation needs to be resolved to his brother’s satisfaction, or the resulting lecture will last hours.

Think! What passcode would the woman use on her mobile phone? If she were truly clever, it would be completely random...but these are hard to remember. Besides, it’s not her style. The safe had her measurements – a little indulgence to her vanity. But this – this is much more important than that. It’s her life, her protection. Her heart, in a way. Who do you entrust your life and your heart to?

Well, Sherlock knows the answer as long as he’s concerned.  The painful, messy, confusing answer. The answer he’d wanted an explanation for by the woman herself, if only she wasn’t too busy harassing him. But Irene? Is she the same? Is she just aiming to tease him?

For a moment, he considers a pun. Maybe she expects him to be blind to himself – his own nature, his worth (however little of that there is). It would certainly please Moriarty, a game like that. But no, this is like Hope’s game – bluff, double bluff, a way to play with his head (his feelings?). Is she like him? Better than him? It doesn’t matter. John might be in Moriarty’s hands, right now. He needs to take a bet.

She said that her soulmate wouldn’t like if Sherlock was Irene’s soulmate too, however one-sided that ended up being. Irene cares for her soulmate’s feelings, in a painful, twisted way. She might be like John, or like Sherlock, or be a weird mixture of both. But the consulting detective has taken his decision. He raises.

“We’re not beaten yet,” he declares, glaring at her. “Because you’ve committed everyone’s fatal error.”

“Oh? The baby thinks he’s figured that one finally?” Irene retorts mockingly.

“I was there when you talked to John – and you chattered so much, but truth is, you showed your hand. The Woman, the renowned dominatrix, is still a romantic at heart, her heart full of soulmate babble – required and not,” the sleuth mentions, just as scathing.

“That was a part – a part I played for _your_ John. Your very oblivious, very daft John. It must be _painful_ , dearie,” she quips with a smirk.

“No, no. What about when you thought Kate had been killed by the CIA, in Belgravia? I’m not blind. That was just an ulterior confirmation. I’ve known since childhood that the very existence of soulmates is the most inescapable cause of death in the world. Thank you for the final proof,” Sherlock hisses, stern. “If you’d never met her, if you were able to ignore her, you would have obtained everything you wanted. Now, it’s the end for you”.

KATELOCKED. Yup. Her life and soul in the hands of her soulmate. And it ends in her death – their deaths. He didn’t think the Woman would be that naive. He holds towards Mycroft her phone, unlocked. “Case solved. I expect I’m free to go. We’re fine, aren’t we?” he says. He’s cold, but truth is – he’s anxious. He just wants to get home and check where John is and that he’s safe. (This will eventually kill him, and oddly, it doesn’t even bother him that much. He’s skirted death too long to mind.)

Mycroft nods, but Irene’s suddenly in the way, eyes shiny with unshed tears. As if he wouldn’t be able to fake that at the drop of a hat – is he supposed to be impressed? “If you give that to your brother, I’ll be dead,” she points out.

“You seem to be eminently adequate at shirking that, and even if you weren’t, frankly, it doesn’t concern me. The game’s finished. I have other priorities,” Sherlock retorts. Like stopping your consultant from making a move I can’t parry.

“If I die, Kate will die. She doesn’t deserve it,” the woman explains, as if they might have missed that. Honestly, if her first thought had been for Kate, and only subsequently worry for herself, the consulting detective might have been tempted to help her out. But like this? He’s unaffected. “You should have thought of that before biting more than you could chew, then,” he says, stepping around her to give his brother the phone.

She clutches at his back and yanks, trying to stop him any way she can. “Wait! Do you want me to beg?” she whimpers – oh, it’s for maximum effect. He doesn’t think for a moment this is not a show.

“Mycroft might be interested. And it wouldn’t surprise me if he had a use for you, so that you could survive. As for me, I don’t need to make a point, or prove I’m the alpha. I’ve never cared about that. I’m simply busy. Kindly unhand me, please,” the sleuth states, cold and polite despite being in turmoil over the Moriarty business. Will she just let him go?

She does, defeated. With a nod to his brother, Sherlock hurries away. He lets her a parting shot, because this whole affair has been just such an awful waste of opportunities to learn. To understand. “Things might have turned better for everyone if you’d been less hungry, Miss Adler. Consider it,” he points out, leaving without waiting for her reply.                

In the meantime, John wanders about Regent’s Park, until his leg protests (why is it waking up now? He thought that issue was resolved) and he plops down on a bench by the lake. He wishes his father’s religious babble had stuck with him more. He wishes he had any other, not unique name. (Well, not unique, is it? There are his soulmate and his flatmate, at the very least).

Because either of these things – or preferably both – happening would have allowed John to wallow in self-delusion. Sherlock and Irene are not soulmates; therefore, they are incompatible. Nothing would ever happen between them. John is sure that if he asked Molly, she would try to sell him some version of this tale. Bless her, she’s such a bright young woman, but clearly ruined by too many Harlequin novels.   

John – having given up early on his destined love – has shagged too many people (people whose names didn’t even remotely resemble Sherlock) to think melatonin production has any bearing on whether his flatmate and the woman would hook up. And honestly, it was obvious that Irene and his  highly frustrating flatmate have chemistry.

The blogger has seen Sherlock solve dozens of cases, but no one quite that quick as the one the dominatrix teased him with. You could have clocked him. If John had known it was going to happen, he would have asked them to wait a few seconds while he unearthed his old stopwatch. Who knows if the Guinness book of records would have accepted it as an entry. Sherlock certainly deserved the extra fame.

Anyway, never mind that the consulting detective didn’t look at Irene while solving it (whether Mycroft is right or not, John can empathise all too well with feeling a bit shy around your crush) or that his first reaction was mind-palacing (John can make it a verb, if he wants to). What is eventually going to happen is painfully obvious. With Irene clearly not being adverse to that, all the blogger felt he could do was encourage her and flee the premises.

Because when his flatmate’s brain comes back online, and these two gorgeous geniuses jump each other, John does not want to be there and see it. Or hear it. His own mind is already wondering how loud Irene will succeed to make Sherlock scream, and it is already enough self-sabotaging for the doctor. Having his doubts cleared is more than he could bear.

So he gives them his ‘benediction’ and flees as quick as his legs will carry him. Not that they need it, but it’s better than the alternative. Staying and making a spectacle of himself. God, his stomach is upset at the very thought. What if they _are_ loud and he ends up hogging the bathroom by throwing up? It feels scarily probable.

He tries to take his mind off it. To let nature fill his senses – the song of a lonely bird, the play of sunlight against the soft ripples of water of the lake. It does not work. He sees without even seeing, (and certainly not observing – and if Sherlock could just get out of his mind for a second, the blogger would be oh so very grateful).

When that fails him, he attempts to look at other people, random passersby, even subtly overhearing them. John has always been curious towards people, knowing everyone holds a story...and for a time, when he was plunged in the depth of depression, certain that anyone had a much better tale than his own hidden in his life.

Not that the blogger believes that anymore. There’s no way anyone has half the giddiness and excitement in their life he’s found since he met Sherlock. (And he’s back to his flatmate again  - how is he supposed to stop thinking of him? Would hitting his head repeatedly against a tree even work?)

That at least makes him laugh. Out loud, all alone, like the madman he’s probably turned into since living in 221B Baker street. Part of him misses his flatmate’s presence, because giggling with him is one of the best feelings in the world.

Part of him expects to either receive a text (from Irene, more than the sleuth... she seems certainly like the most capable one in managing relationships) with permission to come back, or to have to beg Mike (like hell he’s going to Harry) to put up with him for a night. The sight of the consulting detective walking briskly towards him surprises him for a second. He hasn’t even changed...he would have if he’d showered, and if he’d been busy with Irene, he would have taken a shower, wouldn’t he?

“What are you doing out here, John? Are you actively trying to make a target out of yourself?” the detective scolds sternly, sitting close to him.

“Target? Why would you even think that? Of course I’m not looking for trouble, not now. I just thought you might...want the house to yourself. Well, and Irene. You know.” John’s reply starts clear, but ends in a mumble. Yup, he’s an adult, he’s discussed his own and his friend’s conquests for more than a decade. But not with Sherlock. Never with Sherlock. There’s a sort of...shyness between them, despite the consulting detective’s lack of modesty. Possibly because most of such interactions are teasing, and his friend seems to treat the matter with a startling denotative approach.                    

“No, I don’t know, John, but that’s a discussion for another time. Please, just come home now,” the sleuth retorts, taking hold of his friend’s wrist and tugging like an impatient child. That gains him a startled look, but his blogger follows him meekly. The doctor doesn’t point out the unusual use of ‘please’, or – God forbid – ask if the woman finally instilled (beat?) some manners into him. He just waits...to wake up, most probably. The whole Irene case had some surreal notes.

Once they’re home – safe, or, errr...safer – Sherlock blurts out, “The woman was actively cooperating with Moriarty. And considering what he did last time, well...” His voice tapers out and he makes a vague gesture, which could mean absolutely anything.

“Were you concerned about me?” John asks, finally putting together the odd sentences and nervous behaviour. True, last time he’d been kidnapped and fitted into an explosive vest. But...

“I know, I know, you were a soldier, you can take care of yourself, and so on and so forth,” the detective replies, sounding almost embarrassed to have been caught caring about him. “Just...Moriarty.”   

“And you’re still a mind reader,” the blogger remarks, smiling. “But seriously, we know he’s still active and possibly eager to harass you. This means we have the advantage. If he repeats himself, we’ll just beat him that much quicker. Tea?”

“Mmm..mmm,” is Sherlock’s only reply. Whether the vague sound means “yes,” “I don’t care,” or simply “I’m trying to deduce Moriarty’s next move, why are you even talking to me,” the doctor cannot be sure. As always, when in doubt, he opts to consider it a ‘yes’. Even if it’s not intended like that in origin, there’s a good chance that his friend will drink it out of sheer absentmindedness. Tea can’t hurt.

The kitchen soothes him, as always. There’s something, in the mechanic acts, requiring no thought (he’s been making tea since he could reach the counter), that works just as well – or better – than meditation. He’s tried that once, at uni, with Gillian (she was rather obsessed with everything she could deem exotic), and he always had to rein in the urge to giggle, feeling ridiculous. The one time he thought he finally succeeded, it ended up he’d fallen asleep instead – and snored, if softly. That put an end to their relationship. Not that John cared overly much.

The detective is sitting in his armchair, feet pulled up and knees drawn against his chest. This is not mind-palace...this is clearly him being defensive. John can read through body language enough to see this. Is he afraid of Moriarty? John wishes that that he could protect him, even inside his brain. Let the insane fucker try to break in 221B.

So, instead of just handing him his tea and finding something else to occupy himself with, John speaks up. “Here. So, Moriarty was working with Irene, uh? And is she going to come over again, or do you think she’s played her role in whatever game that madman has planned?”

Sherlock waves his concerns away. “Of course Irene’s part in the play is done. Disappointing in the end, truly, I expected more cleverness out of her...but you know. The heart is always the downfall of the best and brightest. Or not so bright, if they allow feelings to dominate them. Her phone is broken into, Mycroft can play with her if he wishes. Maybe he would be less snarky afterwards.” 

At that, his blogger can’t help but snort loudly. His friend complaining of Mycroft’s attitude...that’s rich. They needle each other all the time. “If Mycroft became suddenly pleasant, you wouldn’t be able to stand it,” he points out, pointedly ignoring the jibe about feelings. That will need more consideration later.      

“Probably,” the detective acknowledges, his lips quirking.

“I’ll get to cooking something. Since the Irene matter is resolved, and the consulting criminal has not made a move yet, I insist you eat,” John announces, hoping his friend will not consider the looming danger as ‘ongoing case’.

“Is this your opinion as a medical professional?” the sleuth queries, between sips.

“Decidedly,” the doctor declares, daring him to object.

The consulting detective apparently knows better than to try that. “Well, then, only a fool argues with his doctor. I have no idea if we do have ingredients for any sort of dish in the fridge, though.”

“Of course you don’t. You’re not the one who does the shopping,” John retorts, shaking his head in fond exasperation. “Don’t worry, I’m pretty sure I can figure something out.” Actually, there was something he meant to try for a few days now, but there had never been time. Once he was too tired from work, once Sherlock was sulking and not eating, once they were on a case and hungry and there was no way they were going to wait for food to be cooked, that’s what pizza was for.

John retires to the kitchen, and after a few minutes, he feels his flatmate’s eyes on him. “No experimenting during the cooking, I thought we agreed on that, Sherlock,” he reminds him kindly.

“Just curious of what you’re preparing,” the sleuth replies, sitting at the table.

John turns towards him, still automatically chopping onions, “Ok, now confess, who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?” 

“Certainly me seeking information is not against my nature,” the detective protests, wrinkling his nose.

“About food? A bit. By the way, I hope I remember this recipe. It’s a while since I tried that,” his blogger retorts, smiling.

“Afghan recipe?” the consulting detective…well, with anyone else John would have used guesses, but Sherlock would have a fit if he utilised such a word aloud, and the doctor isn’t sure his friend isn’t actually able to read minds. So he mentally corrects himself to ‘deduces’.

“Nailed it in one, but you have to explain me how you inferred that. I mean, I haven’t even got the spices out yet,” John replies, preparing to be dazzled.

“No you didn’t, but you looked towards the cabinet where we keep them, considering if you wanted everything lined out or if you preferred to take them out at need. True, not only the spices are in that cabinet, but balance of probability, given the food already out. Besides, you clearly have fond memories of this recipe, you can’t stop smiling while preparing it. It reminds you of happier times…and for you, these do not mean home life. School or service, with spices being an important ingredient, my hypothesis was Afghanistan. Maybe a recipe shared from some civilian you saved?” Sherlock expounds, machine gun quick.

“Yep. Technically, I saved their kid – the poor boy got too close to a mine while playing, one of his friends triggered it…that one I couldn’t do anything for, such a tragedy…,” the doctor recounts, his voice choking. He’d seen that and worse. But it never got easy to face, or even think about it.

Sherlock quietly gets up and holds him from behind – gingerly, silently. Not even a proper embrace, not tight, just…being there, and hoping he’s not doing it wrong and will make his friend bolt. The awkwardness melts John’s heart more than the sympathy. A couple of breaths, and he gets himself under control enough to continue to the happier part of his tale.

“His family decided they’d feed me up until I was moved. I told them they didn’t have to, I was just doing my job, and I wished I could have helped more. The father replied I would offend them if I refused, so… in the end, we became friends – sort of. And before being transferred, I had to ask for a couple of recipes. The boy’s mother was so proud!” he narrates, continuing to chop vegetables, and sort of hoping his friend won’t move away.        

“I’m sure,” Sherlock rumbles, way too close to his ear. Technically, John knows he’s there, but his brain ha clearly not caught up yet. The result is that he startles and, instead of chopping tomato, almost chops his last phalanx right off. He has enough sense to only almost do it, but it’s a close call.

The sleuth looks almost as badly shaken by that as he is, and he immediately takes a step back. “I didn’t mean to put you in danger,” he mumbles, stricken.

“You didn’t,” his blogger assures, “I just need to pay more attention. Take the chicken out of the fridge, will you?”

Sure enough, being asked for his involvement in the preparation of food, the detective scrunches his nose. “Why?”

“Because if you have any body parts in there I could get mixed up with, I don’t want to see them now. At least you know what we have in there who should never end inside a pan. Seriously, Sherlock, half the time you make me seriously contemplate going vegetarian. Maybe I should,” the doctor quips back, shrugging.

“Nonsense. You don’t even like legumes that much. Not as a main course. You’d keep them as a tiny helping side dish and eventually end up seriously lacking proteins. Here,” Sherlock declares, giving up and handing over the meat.

John huffs, but it is probably true. His friend keeps observing the proceedings, without another remark, and soon(ish), the colourful dish is ready. Chicken, onion, tomato, peas, curry, turmeric. He suspects he might have overcooked the chicken a bit, but all around, it looks and smells remarkably like the one he was offered back in Afghanistan.

“Try it,” he prompts, filling a plate for his friend as well as one for himself. Sherlock does without protest – he’ll have to remember the day – and actually makes a rather…suggestive noise. Not one to make Irene’s text warning to shame, but close enough that John regrets not having thought to record it beforehand. It is close to the reaction he had himself, trying the recipe for the first time, but he’d chalked his overenthusiasm to mess’ food being…well, not the best. 

Sherlock goes through his plate like a steamroller, to John’s delight, and when it’s empty, he asks for more. Of course, the empty dish is filled back, and the doctor makes a mental note to always keep the ingredients in the freezer. You never know when you’ll need to coerce a sulky consulting detective to eat.  That kind Afghan family has done more for him than they can ever know. He feels a pang of regret, knowing he has no way to find out what’s happened to them or thank them personally again. If he just announces casually he’s taking a plane back to the warzone, he’s sure that Sherlock would have a fit, and possibly Mycroft would send the MI5 to arrest him at the airport.

“We’re not having this anymore. Ever,” the sleuth declares just then, and John looks at him, shocked. His friend likes this. He obviously likes it very much. So why the veto? The blogger doesn’t have to ask, his puzzlement surely painted on his face. “It makes you sad,” his flatmate mentions, as if it explains everything.  

John’s heart threatens to burst at the show of consideration for his feelings from the usually emotionally oblivious consulting detective. “Not sad,” he objects, “just…melancholic, a bit. But it is a good feeling. A good memory. Not a trigger. I don’t need to avoid that. Thanks for the thought anyway. That was very…kind of you, Sherlock.”  

“Oh. Good. Then, the recipe bears repeating. Definitely. Every time you want,” the sleuth corrects himself, an eager look in his eyes.

“Duly noted,” the doctor acknowledges. He’s wise enough not to offer to make it every time his flatmate likes, because otherwise they won’t eat anything else for a long while, and he doesn’t want to risk this losing his efficacy to ensure Sherlock will eat his fill by inurement.                

 It’s a silly, happy evening. John has somehow managed to chase Moriarty’s shadow for the night. If only it was always so easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. I know, I know, many of you will think I ruined this. I still think in this universe it makes sense. Forgive me?


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Nothing mine. A.N. Thanks to the anonymous guest who reassured me I’ve not botched last chapter, and to SV who doesn’t mind even if they don’t agree with my reasoning. I’m glad I’ve not entirely ruined the story for everyone!

For a while, Sherlock is paranoid. If Moriarty is indeed back – and Irene didn’t look like she was lying – certainly chatting about them with his clients is not the only thing he has planned. Will he kidnap John again? Murder someone and dangle them as a nice bait for the consulting detective to bite into? Ask him out on a ‘date’ via the order victims will be dumped?

He awaits the madman’s next move, pestering Lestrade daily – or even more often, the more days go on without a sign. Finally the inspector snaps that he will not let work the sleuth consult anymore if he’s not left alone to do his ‘boring job’ – and he’s quoting.

In the meantime, Sherlock shadows his blogger everywhere, taking great pains to be unnoticed. He doesn’t want John to become angry with him too, after all. There’s no way that the former soldier would accept his visceral need to protect. An army captain can take care of himself, thank you very much. Which would be true in any other circumstance, but against Moriarty’s planning and resources, there’s no way the detective can let his soulmate, no matter how unwilling to bear such a title, out of his sight.

It’s after ten days, with Sherlock unable to sleep for the last four, certain that Jim will hit the very second he will loosen his obsessive focus, that his blogger takes action. The sleuth is marching along the sitting room, obsessively checking his mobile phone for messages (there have been none, not from Irene nor from Jim) and practically vibrating out of his skin.

When his circuit brings him next to the armchairs, the former soldier blocks his path. Before the detective can circumvent him, John catches him bodily, lifts him up – just a few inches, but enough for Sherlock to be shocked and wrongfooted, not feeling the floor under him anymore – and drops him off on his armchair with a little grunt, blocking his path so the consulting detective can’t even dream of going back to pacing.

“You’re doing exactly what Moriarty wants you too, don’t you realise? He doesn’t need to play with you – he can take a bloody vacation from consulting criminally! You’re obsessing over him all the same. He’s the only one in your head, and the case he was – marginally, by the way – involved with is already over!” the former captain snaps, frustrated.    

The consulting detective swallows his automatic angry reply and starts to think. John is… right. If Jim has cameras on him (and knowing him, it wouldn’t surprise Sherlock if the man had them, indeed), Moriarty gets to see him gagging for news, even if it’s born out of fear and not desire. What more could his ego want?  

Why is John right? It’s annoying. The sleuth grumbles, “Then what do we do?” He doesn’t even notice that, while the doctor used ‘you’, he’s using ‘us’, treating them as an unit, no matter how much his reluctant soulmate might want to maintain distance between them.

“Sleep, for a start. You have a bedroom, even if it seems you might have deleted the notion. Sleeping is actually needed to ensure the brain’s optimal functioning. As for tomorrow…we’ll figure something out,” _his_ doctor (Sherlock’s brain insists to tack the possessive in the privacy of his own mind) declares. Appealing to science is always the best bet with the man.  

The detective wants to listen to him – a part of his soul so very willing to just do whatever his soulmate suggests – but obeying all his instructions seems too complicate. If he does allow himself to give into exhaustion, getting up from his armchair and reaching the bed might be too taxing a feat. He starts blinking furiously, trying to stay awake long enough to decide what to do.

John’s soft smile dazzles his mind between blinks. “Need me to carry you to bed?” the blond asks, and there’s nothing of the mocking or the despise Sherlock would expect from anyone else uttering such a sentence in his tone.

Well, that decides it. With such a proposition on the table, he can only shake his head energetically, to clear the cobwebs from his mind, and scuttle into his room with as much haste as he can muster. The temptation is too much – if he indulges, the sleuth knows his addled brain will do something he’ll sorely regret later.       

Sherlock does follow his blogger’s suggestion. When he wakes up – sixteen hours later – he forgets about Moriarty. If Jim wants his attention, he’ll have to send a message. The consulting criminal has his number, and God knows that he’s able to attract attention when he wants to. Mycroft is keeping an eye on them anyway, and as annoying as the detective usually finds this, he’ll trust his brother to   – if not intervene to protect John – at least track him and warn his brother.

John smiles at him often, these days – slow, domestic ones, he had no idea he could come to love so much. Sherlock basks in it, and still spends hours trying to puzzle out their relationship, without success. John likes him, he seems, and cares for him – insists he’s rested, fed, and as healthy as he can ever be. Still, the blogger doesn’t want to be his soulmate, perhaps even repulsed by the idea, and does not mind the anguish this causes him. True, for as much as he sulks, he hasn’t ever complained openly about it. Never asked, “What’s wrong with me?” afraid of the possible lengthy reply. But the doctor can’t really think he’s fine with the women parading inside the flat, can he?

While Sherlock is still trying to figure out the contradiction, during John’s work hours – damn the man for making him obsessed even while he’s absent – he receives another of Irene’s loud, crude texts. Hasn’t the Woman stopped playing with him, and moved to more interesting – for her – games? He’s tempted to ignore her, but as always, curiosity wins out.

_Need help. Want to outshine Jim Moriarty? It’s you I’m asking for help, Sherlock_. An address follows – in Pakistan. She can never make things easy, can she? He should just ignore this text like he did all the previous ones, she obviously wants to use him some more. Still, it could be his occasion – to understand.

_I might, if you give me something in repayment. SH_ is his reply, and sure enough, she writes back in a flash.

_Finally hungry? xox_ appears on his screen.

_Obviously not, don’t be dull. I want knowledge. SH_ he retorts, stopping himself from sending an eye-rolling emoticon because it’s too childish.

She does give into him at that. Might be for Kate, might be sheer self-interest, but Irene has finally realised that trying to strong-arm him into sex simply will not work. Too late, honestly, for someone who’s supposed to be moderately clever.

When John comes back, he mentions vaguely a request of consultation from India. Not Pakistan, because the former soldier would perk up and insist to accompany him, given the dangerous surroundings – or at least so Sherlock hopes. If not to protect him, to sneak a visit to relocated former comrades, maybe. Given the conversation he’s looking forward to, his reluctant soulmate’s presence would ruin everything.

His blogger accepts his choice not to explain all the details. He declares, though, that he’ll want a thorough report once the detective is back. The sleuth accepts easily, already planning his lie in his mind, and even asks if John wants him to bring something back from India. Spices, maybe? The quality will obviously be different from the ones that are found at Tesco.

His thoughtfulness seems to startle John. But it is not so odd for him to want to please John, is it? He might have forgotten to offer when he went to Minsk, but he was in a mood back then. Now  his soulmate might have puzzling double standards, but Sherlock is certainly not looking forward to punish him.

The consulting detective needs to pull the wool over both Mycroft’s and Jim Moriarty’s eyes, which is an interesting challenge. His brother would certainly be annoyed at him for putting his own thirst for knowledge over concern for the royal family. As for the consulting criminal, Irene might have hinted that she preferred him as saviour, as if she had any choice about it. What little Sherlock knows of his nemesis makes clear that either she has outlasted her usefulness for the consulting criminal, or finally understood (again, rather too late for an intelligent woman) that any further requests would put her forever under Moriarty’s thumb.  

Keeping his movements a secret, or – well – redirecting people’s attention (that’s the only thing that works with Mycroft, and John believing his lies makes it considerably easier) is the part that requires actual effort. Infiltrating a terrorist cell is easy for him. Either Irene got himself caught by a shamefully amateurish group, or it is a wonder how Mycroft’s men have not yet made short work of them.

And fine, not giving Irene the slightest sign he’s here is not so much due to staying in character as to his love for drama and desire to get back at her for all the liberties she’s taken with him. (You don’t drug recovering addicts, seriously, no matter how light or nonaddictive it is).

Sherlock can’t help but miss his soulmate. Fighting down and escaping from furious terrorists? His own blood is singing, and he just knows that John would love being here. Also, his gun – and his perfect aim, the detective really needs to ask him for some lessons – would be more than welcome here. Oh well. One can’t have everything.

Irene is better than one’d suspect at this, or maybe it’s just the adrenaline burst that will turn even the meekest of people (which she certainly isn’t) into a vicious fighter. One hour later, they’re ensconced in a not entirely wild cave. It’s equipped for a short stay, and looks untouched enough from the outside that they should have a night’s rest. Their bike – the best the sleuth managed t procure on short notice – is carefully hidden at a certain distance, so that even if it was found people would not locate them immediately.

As soon as they’re out of sight, the Woman starts hurriedly disrobing. “I said no dinner, Irene!” the detective yelps (he’ll deny he made that sound till his death, but what’s true it’s true).

She rolls her eyes. “We did. And I don’t care about it, I’d never meant to follow through. My teasing was nothing more than wanting to make you lose that pretty head. But people will still be after me, and being a woman in this place anyway is a nightmare. Get out of your garments, Junior, we’re swapping. _You_ can deal with the harassment,” she snaps.

“ _Oh_ ,” Sherlock sighs in relief, looking around helplessly for a place that might allow him a modicum of privacy.

“You don’t have anything I’m interested in, Sherly. Or anything I’ve not seen before – not that I’d touch one. Just get on with it, if you still want your answers,” the Woman urges sternly. She grumbles under her breath something that might be, “Bloody virgin.”

Apparently, that’s the right thing to say. “I _do_ want answers!” he retorts, ‘getting on with it’. “Don’t you dare to go back on your word!”

“I won’t,” Irene assures. “Ask away.” She ignores him, picking up the clothes to be ready as soon as possible.

“You have found your soulmate,” the detective states – not asks. This is something he will not let her deny. There’s enough denial going on with John already. “And you hurt her.”

“I thought you had _questions_ ,” the woman mocks, raising an eyebrow.

“Why? I mean… I assume you love her, what with being soulmate. So why would you purposefully hurt her?” Sherlock queries, frowning in puzzlement.

“To be blunt, dear, I do that because it makes her cum harder than she ever did in her life before she met me,” the Woman declares, with a predatory grin.

“I thought…what you did was about the dominant one’s pleasure,” he mumbles, not looking at her. He researched – though he didn’t have the patience or heart to do so for long, and certainly couldn’t determine how good his source was as usual.

“If you’re a lousy Domme, sure,” Irene sneers, pacing in frustration at the supposed genius’ idiocy. “I would love to think I’m better than that with everyone, and much more so with my soulmate.”

“But you still play with others. You found her, and you still work. Isn’t this hurting her in a way that is in no way conducive to orgasms?” the detective objects.

“Kate is not hurt by my work,” the Woman declares, stopping to glare at him. His insinuations are insulting.

“Been there, done that. Believe me, she might not dare say it, but she _is_ ,” Sherlock retorts, glaring back. He needs to understand – the why and how and all the details – and letting her cling to false ideas will not help either of them.       

“That’s your problem, Junior. Not dare say it? I’d break it off with Kate if I thought she was too scared to talk things out with me, for her sake. We had a good long discussion once I met her, and she agreed that with so many people tragically never finding their soulmate, and their needs being…peculiar, she didn’t mind if I helped some poor lost souls out. She’d gone through a number of dominants before finding me, so she sympathised. But if she’d told me my working with others wounded her, I would have found another work. Store clerk, if necessary,” she asserts, eyebrows shooting up at his statement. “You need to talk it out with John.”

“I can’t,” the sleuth admits, looking down. “He would leave me, and I can’t risk that. He clearly doesn’t want to be my soulmate, and pushing things can only blow up in my face. I’ll take the lesser hurt, no matter how agonising it feels, thank you.”

“Sherlock Holmes, you are an idiot,” Irene proclaims, fists against her hips. “And I can’t beat some sense into you now. I lack the equipment, and beating people in anger and frustration is just not done. I’ll keep you updated though, and if you ever want a session as encouragement to open that pretty mouth, you’ll know where to find me.”

He doesn’t react at all, his brain already miles away. He’d so hoped this could give him the key to understanding John, and hence how to deal with him, but it appears she doesn’t understand. Sherlock is the only one in the world whose soulmate despises him. He should have expected it.    

John has done his best not to be envious. Someone needs to be the sensible one, and he does have a job – for now. It’s bad enough all the times he ditches the hospital for an ‘emergency’ – aka a case – here in London. Christ, Harry is an alcoholic, and he wouldn’t dream to request half the time for her that he has done for his flatmate.

Then again, Harry is so used to alcohol abuse, the chances that she’ll actually die in a gutter are not that high – she knows what to do. A case usually means someone will be swinging a metal pipe at the sleuth, strangling him, or if they’re unlucky downright shooting at him. And no matter how good a fighter his friend is, or how observant, he still doesn’t have eyes on the back of his head. Backup is literally lifesaving in such circumstances, which is the reason the blogger will put forth if anyone asks.

This doesn’t mean that John can follow him everywhere. They’re not _actually_ joined at the hip. It would look more than a bit weird. And the world’s only consulting detective can certainly hold his own. He did for five years until John came along, after all.    

But the doctor’s heart is not in his office, with the patients complaining of flu and upset stomach and “I’ve checked internet, I’m going to die, ain’t I?’ which usually means they have nothing at all. He’s mentally tracking his flatmate, which is a ridiculous endeavour given the few details about the case he knows, but he can’t control his mind. After all, trying not to think about Sherlock would make John think about him all the time instead that every now and then (fine, too often).

When Sherlock comes back, his blogger looks forward to having him back. Empty, the flat is just frustrating (not that he can admit as much). Christ, at times he feels like a puppy left behind and wagging his tail madly when his owner returns. It’s shameful, and ridiculous, and it makes John angry at himself. Whether Sherlock is a homonym or refuses to have anything to do with him sentimentally doesn’t matter; he should have better control of his feelings.

The fact that the case has clearly been disappointing, not worth getting out of their sitting room, much less a trip to a different continent, annoys John too. He was hoping for an exciting tale, even if possibly one he couldn’t share on the blog. Instead, at his, “How did it go, then?” the detective groans wordlessly and plops himself on the couch, back to the world. “That bad, uh?” John remarks, and moves to cheer him up. The consulting detective would normally rant and rave about the idiocy of criminals, police forces, forensics and people in general. That he’s too blue to do even that means things are bad indeed.

Tea seems to help – at least it gets Sherlock to turn around to drink it, even if not to report about what happened. The doctor is surprised by a nod toward his friend’s baggage, and more so – when he starts rooting through it – by finding the promised spices. With the case being a letdown, he would have expected his flatmate to forget his offer entirely.  “I have the right ingredients. What do you say about making that Afghan chicken recipe with these spices?” he asks, smiling.

“The one with peas?” the sleuth retorts, and well, at least he’s talking. John nods. He’s promised himself not to use it too often, because it might lose efficacy in the long run, but going from lack of Sherlock to sulky Sherlock without any good times in between is something more than he can stand.

He smiles to himself while cooking, tempted to whistle, even. Thank God that for all his talk of ‘just transport’ and ‘mind over matter’ the consulting detective still has favourite dishes one can use to cheer him up like any human being.

The detective still does not talk about his case, but the dish elicits some soft, almost mewling sounds that John can be proud of all the same (and that might require him to retire early today, Christ). If the investigation was so very frustrating, better for Sherlock to delete it entirely than for John to ask about it and then have to soothe him all over again. (He certainly wouldn’t mind some more of these sounds, but for his sanity, it’s better not to tempt fate.)

The following day, Sherlock is sleeping in – par for the course for post-case crash – and so John gets to work without a worry. Whatever mood his friend will be in, they can deal with it in the evening. Hopefully the sleuth will not feel awful again, maybe someone will be murdered in an interesting way for a change – oh God, what is John becoming?

Getting back from work, the doctor gets caught by a downpour because of course he does, but never mind. The distance between the tube and Baker Street does not justify buying an umbrella. He’s looking forward to getting home and drinking a cup of tea, though…only he gets derailed.

By Mycroft. Who doesn’t even have the courtesy to send a car to kidnap him this time (doesn’t want to drench the seats, maybe?), preferring to ambush him at Speedy’s. Of course, the British Government has an umbrella. John would bet a paltry sum that Mycroft lives for the times he gets to be the only one with a brolly during a sudden rain so he can give the “I’m always prepared,” look to every poor sod who doesn’t. Seriously, was Mycroft a boy scout as a child? Is he looking for a medal?

John squashes the smile that last thought evokes, mentions the fact the man is smoking (if Sherlock’s struggle with nicotine is due to admiring his big brother, he’ll have words with the both of them), and then – obviously – accepts the offer of tea. Never mind if cafés are not Mycroft’s milieu. The smug bastard can be uncomfortable too, there’s no way that John’s leading him home when yesterday Sherlock’s mood was already fluctuating.

(Only Mycroft had never meant to visit 221B, because of course the universe follows his whims). Apparently, John deserves the preview about Irene’s fate. Why does anyone think he’d be interested? If she’s in America – _without_ being hounded by the CIA, but cooperating, for a change (not that he’d trust her, but he’s not the one who has to) – he can’t care less. And if Sherlock won’t see her anymore, his first reaction is a vicious, “Good,” which he barely suppresses.    

Instead, he waves away the whole subject, or tries to. After all, his flatmate should not care about it – not after he’s been deceived and used for so long, or at least John sincerely hopes. The blogger himself cares even less – it’s not like his readers are clamouring to know the destiny of the dominatrix, and the less she’s mentioned, the better he’ll feel – so what is Mycroft’s point in coming around to see this? The British Government should be too busy for meaningless chats.

Oh, wait, apparently Mycroft’s goal is just to tease him, implying his little brother is still very much invested in Irene’s fate, even when he won’t mention her name anymore. Is he doing it to rile John up? Or is he seriously concerned (always worrying) about Sherlock and – in this case – his love life? That’s beyond even his usual level of creepy, isn’t it? I mean, if Sherlock decides to up and leave for the States to live with Irene and have wild kinky sex three times a day, it’s not any of their business, is it? He might have to move, but he hopes his flatmate would at least be considerate enough to warn him in time to seek other accommodations.

Helpless to rebuke the man as he should when his brain is derailing at top speed towards a bleaker and bleaker future, John soothes himself – and unsubtly probes Mycroft – mentioning Sherlock’s flaunted lack of feelings. Sociopaths don’t fall in love – at the very least not with anyone but their soulmate, if even that – John is pretty sure. And while he’s doubted his friend’s self-diagnosis many times, it is something he wants to cling on to, right now.

Mycroft deflects his request of details on his brother’s sentimental history by purposefully (John bets) mistaking and talking about career choices…and inviting him to deduce. It’s a low blow. Yep, he’s not a genius like the Holmes siblings. He has barely any idea about his own heart, so much confusion and doubt swirling in his head about what these feelings are, what they’re caused by, and how to deal with them. How can he be expected to read through the at best mercurial consulting detective?

Mycroft might have sensed the quickly coming, ‘How the fuck do you expect me to?” and defuses the situation with an admission of ignorance and a quip about his brother’s childhood. The claim to have no idea about Sherlock’s feelings John doesn’t believe for a second. After all, Harry and he might be on less than great terms, but he knows her, and always will – Mycroft raised Sherlock, there’s no way he can’t read the man. The childhood memory, though, is too delightful not to make John smile reflexively. He can just imagine a curly-haired child descending upon a younger Mycroft’s room to plunder it, and probably coming away with a book as treasure.  

And then, of course, the British Government has to go and ruin all by being awful. Couldn’t he leave John in his conviction about Irene’s fate and use him as pawn to report it? But no, he has to make the doctor an accomplice in deceiving his own brother, letting him know the Woman is definitely, absolutely dead. Or was she?

Technically, Sherlock might have been at hand – rushed from India to Karachi, and saved her life. It’s not unfeasible. It does seem to clash with the sleuth’s current mood, though. If he had just saved her love’s life, and was looking forward to secret dates and wild sex, he wouldn’t be so disappointed. Oh Christ. What if the detective tried to…and failed? If he was too late, or not clever enough, or…no wonder he came back in a wordless mood!     

Of course, Mycroft doesn’t need to know any of that. And Sherlock does not need to know – or, more exactly, needs to never ever realise – what John suspects. Which leaves him only with the option to feed his flatmate the lie his brother concocted. If the detective thinks John believes Irene is in America, he won’t suspect any of his actions to be out of pity. Which they wouldn’t be; sympathy is not pity; but try to explain that to the consulting detective.

The consulting detective reads him on sight, of course – or at least, reads that he has something to report, which worries him. The blogger wishes that the man could read Mycroft’s lies off him, too, but the sleuth’s mind is on a case  he’s been called for this morning (and how happy had John been receiving the ‘Going to crime scene. Probably a 4. SH’ text). So John needs to breach the Irene subject by himself. He’s never been so uncomfortable in his life.

Because he’s confused, mostly. If he knew for sure that his Sherlock loves (loved?) her, or that the detective hated her, or anything, he would know what to do. But like this? What is he supposed to do to soften the blow? (Is it even a blow?)

He almost backtracks in his thoughts, scolding himself, but yep, _his_ Sherlock, why not. After all, the question is simple. Either their soulmate bond is one-sided on John’s side, and the detective’s soulmate is off somewhere and Sherlock said they were dead just because he didn’t want to hear, “why don’t you look for him/deduce where he is.” (Possible.) But, given the uniqueness of the name, John suspects his flatmate _is_ his soulmate…but prefers to ignore it, because John is an idiot. Why bond with someone who’s been cast off so many times?

He remembers the best advice the detective gave him a long time ago – lies have details – so he keeps the whole Irene history as vague as he’s heard it from Mycroft. Sherlock’s impassive face is not helping him to mould his own behaviour. You’d think that they are discussing the weather instead of a (possible) love interest’s fate.

Or not, John wonders with a hidden sigh of relief. After all, his friend points out that he has no reason to wish to see Irene anymore, and refuses to look over her file. It doesn’t sound like someone whose thoughts are full of someone. …Or it is, but having just failed her, the sleuth can’t even make himself go along with the lie – fake an interest in ‘what happened’ to a woman he might have buried days ago. How stupid can John be? And why does Sherlock’s behaviour have so many contrasting explanations? What the fuck is John supposed to do of that?

That’s it. He’s going to ask. He’s going to ask about Sherlock’s feelings – for Irene, for his soulmate, for him (in the remote case they’re not the same person); about the detective’s plans. About everything.

And then the consulting detective holds his hand out and asks for her phone. A whim? A memento of a case where he’s been manipulated, so not to fall for that trick anymore? …A keepsake of a loved one he’s lost?

The doubts keep swirling inside John’s head, and he really, really would like to ask, but the detective is _polite_ about it. Polite. Twice. (Please _and_ thank you.) That takes all wind out of his blogger’s sails. What more does he need as evidence that yep, there is (was?) love there. Not so long ago he’d been determined to lie to spare his friend’s feelings, and now he thought it was a good idea to corner him and ask about everything? Temporary insanity, truly. Did Mycroft have Speedy put anything in his tea?

John gives the phone up, obviously. Sherlock being polite is bad enough. God forbid that he makes his friend _beg_ for it. (Not about her – never about her.) Besides, it’s empty. It’s not like it will attract more people who would hurt Mrs. Hudson, or anyone else. Its value is purely…sentimental. Something that makes John want to rant and rave, about “how can you love someone who used you, no matter how gorgeous and brilliant, for fuck’s sake!”, but he doesn’t.

Sherlock is clearly feeling…fragile, and it’s killing John that he would let the fucking whore affect him so deeply. And really, this isn’t even about her profession, it’s just John’s anger and what he learned from his dad – he usually tries to do the exact opposite, but it’s hard to remember when he wishes her death was slow for how she played with his friend’s feelings, again and again.

He’s sensible enough not to say any of it, of course, that’d be more than a bit not good. He better remove himself quickly, actually, before he accidentally blurts out anything he really shouldn’t. Still, they’re on the subject of the Woman, and practically everything John has are his own hypotheses. At the very least, he’d like to know if Sherlock knows – whether because he failed to save her or not – what really happened to her.

So – still awkward, so much, someone stop him – he asks whether she texted him more. Not that he wants to update his mental headcount of their texts, he’s not that insane, just…has she kept inviting him to dinner? Requested his help, maybe? Would the sleuth even say if she did?

What his friend admits to is receiving a goodbye. Of course, a goodbye can mean many things, but Sherlock being Sherlock, he’s probably deduced the truth. Would it be better or worse having been asked for help and failed to deliver in time or discovering she was hunted and killed and didn’t think he would help her?

Stop it, John. Stop. He can spend decades wondering about his flatnate’s feelings – what he does and does not feel, what is better or worse. He needs a breather. Otherwise he won’t be able to help if his Sherlock has an emotional breakdown. (Can he even? John’s afraid he’s about to discover it.)                  

      


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I am obviously not owning a thing.

 

Sherlock does keep Irene’s phone as a memento. Not of the Woman herself, he certainly does not care wherever she goes from Karachi, or if she ends up getting herself and Kate murdered, someday, by being her frustrating self. No, he keeps it to remind himself of her lesson.

John is not behaving as he does because he’s a natural sadist, who delights in his soulmate’s agony. No, he possibly is a sweet, attentive lover (jury is still out on that, actually, he seems to go a long way to please his occasional partners, but their turnover rate speaks of _some_ flaw the sleuth is still blind to)…Just repelled by the very idea of Sherlock being his destined companion. Truly and deeply.

Should he offer to move out? …Maybe it’s his selfishness (not to speak of all his other shortcomings) that makes John despise him, because as soon as he considers the option, his very soul recoils against it. He’s still rating whatever measure of comfort their cohabitation provides over his soulmate’s happiness. If asked about it, his blogger would deem it more than a bit not good, certainly.

So, instead of talking about it (honestly, Irene – for all her cleverness – can be surprisingly oblivious to the most obvious consequences), he hides. In his mind palace, mostly. There, he can mould things as he pleases. He’s not hated. He’s not despised. He can cobble together these few times John touched him for medical reasons – to patch him up after a skirmish or another – into soft caresses against naked skin. Is he torturing himself, when he knows he will eventually have to come back to reality – the one where he’s rejected? Maybe. But he can’t make himself stop.

The pull of old vices is a siren’s call, now. When his inner world is so much more tempting than the harsh truth, why not enhance it a bit? Dampen this, brighten that. He knows how to do it. But… “Do you really want to disappoint everyone?” Teen!Sherlock wonders from his attic. You’d think the boy would be a rebel like all teenagers, but truth is, he was still only playing around with substances then. It’s only later they became his crutch against the world. Teen!Sherlock, apparently, is more concerned about being even more rejected than he already is. “Lestrade will deny you cases…and John… you know what John thinks of substance abuse. How many times did he visit his sister past here? Once? Twice?”       

Sherlock will die if he sees his soulmate twice a year. That is a fact. He does not need evidence. He knows. So that’s out of the window. Still, his brain is fixated on drugs, and Irene, and the Soulmate Conundrum…

The point is, it’s useless to ‘talk it out’, because John would just deny anything. It seems to be his favourite technique, and his blogger would probably, if asked by a stranger, claim it is a ‘white lie’, an act of kindness. With most people, that would be true, too.

But the sleuth’s brain has been eating itself for lack of data, split between, “I don’t want to acknowledge this,” and, “What if it’s _fixable_? What if it’s a thing, or a dozen things, of a thousand things (much more likely) I can change? Habits can be dropped, or modified. Skills can be learned. Does John think I’m too stupid? Doesn’t he know the lengths I’d happily go to for him to be proud to publicly recognise me as his soulmate?” 

What if the sleuth takes a page out of the Woman’s book? A tiny bit of non-consensual drugging? Not with anything addictive, God no, his blogger would _murder_ him if he did – and be fully right to do so. But pentothal could be an interesting option. Or, even better, something with similar effects he can concoct himself, because getting his hands on it would undoubtedly raise all sorts of flags with Mycroft. John would not be able to deny it. Sherlock would know the reason for his behaviour, instead of letting his own self-hatred run amok. 

As always, once he gets an idea stuck in his head, there’s no way to talk himself out of it. For a few days, he spends all his time ignoring everything else (including offer of cases, but then again, there’s nothing over a four) and researching. Strictly on his computer, because he can favourite pertinent websites without John getting a whiff of it.

He also borrows his flatmate’s medical texts, and that wakes the doctor’s curiosity. “If you have questions, you can always ask me, you know, don’t you?” the man queries.

The sleuth simply nods, not looking up from a very interesting page about the functions of different parts of the brain.

At that, with a somehow strained laugh, John adds, “You’re not thinking of storing all that knowledge by yourself so you won’t need my input on cases anymore, are you?”

Finally, the sleuth looks at him – rolling his eyes would be rather pointless if his reluctant soulmate couldn’t see it. “Of course not, John, don’t be ridiculous. That would be an awful waste of brain space. Do you copy on your pc what you have saved on cloud?...On second thought, maybe _you_ do. Anyway, even if I did learn all of this by heart, I still would lack your experience, and that helps tremendously reach the correct conclusion quickly. No, this is simply a bit of light reading. Unless you’re opposed to me borrowing the book?”       

“Of course not,” the doctor reassures him. “Still trying to wrap my mind about this being ‘light reading’ when I crammed so hard for this exam I practically passed out at the lunch table after I took it because I hadn’t slept for three days.”

“And you scold me,” Sherlock huffs at the revelation. “Hypocrite.”

“I was considerably younger and more stupid – and I learnt the hard way that it wasn’t a sustainable regime. Which you still seem to have missed, somehow,” his blogger retorts, but without heat. After all, they’ll have this conversation many more times still. There’s no doubt. Getting too impassioned would be a waste of energy.   

“Yes, well, maybe we’re different,” the sleuth remarks, before plunging back in his research. He pretends not to hear the mumbled, “You’re still human,” because scolding the man for stating the obvious would only distract him now. He’s on a mission.

It takes him two weeks to acquire the necessary data – only because he’s been overly careful, of course. Not wanting to be caught at it, nor (much more) to damage his soulmate’s brain, means that he can’t carelessly discard details he would otherwise delete.

Finally, he starts the actual production stage of his homemade truth serum. John is at work, which is perfect for the detective’s need of secrecy. Now, he just needs to add a drop of this and an ounce of that, and filter it afterwards…By the time his flat(soul)mate gets home, it’ll be ready. It’s a pity he can’t test it beforehand, of course. But he very much doesn’t want to learn all of Mrs. Hudson’s secrets (he’s afraid he’d be traumatised for life) and his usual ‘test on yourself’ routine would be more than disastrous. Never mind. He’s pretty certain that at least this will not cause damage. 

When John comes home, at lunch (short shift today, much to Sherlock’s happiness), he stills on the doorstep. “You cooked?” he asks, sniffing cautiously.

“I ordered,” the detective mentions airily, “Angelo was only too happy to deliver.” Which is true. If he added a bit of a secret ingredient to John’s favourite dish, that’s not something he will confess just of yet.

His blogger’s sigh of relief should be insulting. He is a seasoned chemist, how hard can cooking lasagna be? (He might have to try it someday, if it will get him points with John). Instead, he just waves John to come over and enjoy. As long as the man doesn’t suspect a thing, better not stir the quiet. 

The doctor doesn’t need him to repeat the invitation. A moment, and he’s sitting at the table and tucking in. “I think I might love Angelo,” he groans after the first bite.

The sleuth keeps his eyes down, on his own food, to hide the flash of pain he knows he won’t be able to suppress. John does throw the word love around so casually…for everyone but him, apparently.

“Want a taste?” John offers, smiling and holding out his fork with a bite. Normally, the detective would already have helped himself to the contents of his flatmate’s plate – and his soulmate would have retaliated in kind. This time, though, he can’t risk it. So he shakes his head and pointedly eats one of his tortellini alla boscaiola.

He watches his flatmate like a hawk, though, wondering if there will be some sign of his drug taking effect – increased talkativeness, relaxation. It’s hard to determine, though, because Angelo’s best food works like magic to relax John and put him in a good mood anyway.

Unable to wait anymore, as soon as the last bite is eaten, Sherlock casually asks, “Why do you hate your middle name so much, anyway?” It’s a control question. He’s certainly not going to delve in their confusing relationship (or lack of it) dynamic if his formulation is useless. John’s obvious reluctance to share what is, ultimately, useless trivia (at least in the eyes of most, as the sleuth is a glutton for any John-detail he can amass) speaks of a story behind it all. He could discover it, with a mix of research and deduction. But making John share willingly what he doesn’t want to is a good test.

His flatmate bites his lips, and for a moment the detective suspects he’ll have to start anew. But then John shrugs, and mumbles, “It was my uncle’s name. Seriously, what was my father thinking? The man was a total asshole.”   

Bingo! It is effective. Now he can finally have his answers. Well, after, because now that John started talking, he doesn’t seem to be able to shut up. It’s like a dam has been broken, and Sherlock knows instinctively that interrupting him now would mean hurting his soulmate, and forever ignore this side of him. His answers can wait.

“I mean, my Da was bad enough – not purposefully cruel, but a bit too fond of his drink, just like Harry. And yet, he was very very sure he knew what was right – and was doing it. But uncle…he was a snake. I just wish auntie Susan could have met you before she did him. I know, I know. Impossible, given the timeline. But you’d have seen through him. You’d have told her, ‘Yup, he might have your soulmate’s name, and look like he’s sure you’re his, but run away. He might seem a pleasant fellow, but he’s a whited sepulchre. He’ll hurt you and persuade you you’re guilty. Run away while you can.’ Heck, I still feel guilty about not telling her, and I was five when they married. My Da had to know how awful his brother was, even before. That kind of thing doesn’t suddenly start one morning,” John confesses, voice drowsy.       

Sherlock should comfort him, shouldn’t he? Assure him it was not his responsibility to warn his aunt. Tell him that nomen omen is utter twaddle, no matter what the idiot masses think, and that being named after an abusive asshole is not some sort of secret shame. Besides, statistically there are thousands of people with the same name with a pristine character.

Instead he’s entranced by the slow, dreamy flow of details – about the Watsons’ family life, Harry, john’s childhood. Poignant things, silly things – a whole world that John would have never shared otherwise. The sleuth keeps quiet, but – after a few hours of uninterrupted chatter – provides tea. John must be thirsty by now. He’s hoarding trivia like a dragon hoards gems, but eventually, his blogger’s words drift to nothing, and he yawns widely.

“Goodnight, Sherlock. I’m going to bed,” the blond announces.

Suddenly, the detective is panicking, “Wait! I need to ask…”

“Tomorrow. I promise I’ll tell you anything, but I really can’t keep my eyes open now. Some of us are human, you know,” John declares, before marching towards his bedroom.

Oh well. Tomorrow. That’s an idea. After all, he learned how to create the truth serum. He can dose his soulmate again any time he wants. Today is a definite win.   

The following morning, John’s alarm doesn’t ring. He wakes up uncharacteristically drowsy, and yawns widely. If there’s one thing the army hammered into him, it was to be battle ready as soon as he opened his eyes…if he wanted to stay alive. But now, he can’t seem to get rid of the mental cobwebs. It’s odd.

One look at his phone, and an adrenaline surge brings him back to lucidity. Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck. He’s already an hour late for work. For all the days for him to oversleep, and Sherlock to not saw at his violin or cause an explosion in the wee hours of the morning, it had to be today. Sarah will have his hide – he can’t even claim it’s case related, this time. Just old good Murphy’s law.

He stumbles downstairs, slams the bathroom door behind himself, and showers in record time. John is just throwing a quick look at himself to decide if it would be acceptable not to shave, when his useless flatmate calls to him through the door, “John? Are you okay? Don’t you usually have coffee first?”   

“When I’m not an hour late, sure!” the doctor growls back. Is Sherlock concerned with his breakfast, now? The world is ending, isn’t it?

And then the world suddenly stops making sense, because the sleuth yells at him, “You’re not, John! You don’t work on Thursdays.”

“Yep, only it’s Wednesday,” his flatmate snaps. “Losing track of time again?”

“I’m not,” the detective states, opening the bathroom door and brandishing his own mobile phone. “Look!” Privacy is never the highest of priorities for him; bless the army for accustoming John to sharing his morning rituals with a crowd.

Instead of being crippled by shyness, he turns to obey… and it does indeed read Thursday. Still, John frowns, mistrustful. Not that he can imagine a reason for the man to purposefully make him miss work. But he can’t imagine the reason for half of Sherlock’s actions anyway.

“Oh, for the love of something!” the sleuth blurts out, frustrated. Check your computer. Check teletext! You don’t think I can hack teletext, can I? You’ll find they all concur on it being Thursday. Will you relax and have breakfast, then? Or do you prefer rushing to the clinic and making them think you’re an idiot? I’m looking out for you.”

John double checks – of course he does – and the whole world agrees with his flatmate. He flops into a chair in the kitchen, suddenly exhausted despite having just woken. “Tell me we have coffee. Tea. Something,” he asks. Since Sherlock is right, there’s no need to starve himself – he’s famished. 

“Of course we do,” the sleuth agrees, being uncharacteristically solicitous – and if that shouldn’t worry John, nothing does, but he can’t be properly suspicious before coffee.  So he just nods and takes the cup offered to him and swallows a long sip.

“Jam, honey, beans, eggs…what are you up for?” the sleuth queries airily, flitting around the room as a drunk bee – apparently unable to decide on a course.

That, finally, clicks in John’s muddled brain. “Ok, who are you and when have you managed to change my obnoxious flatmate with a Stepford wife?” he quips.

The detective stills immediately, flushing prettily – his neck too, and isn’t that gorgeous. Christ, no, it’s too soon for John to fight off the man’s beauty. If (and it’s a big if, but it’s looking more and more probable each time he thinks about it) Sherlock is his, his attitude makes obvious he doesn’t want John. So drooling after him is useless. Not that John can blame him. He wouldn’t want to be bound to himself too. Especially if he was a gorgeous genius who could have anyone if he so much as blinked in their direction.

And speaking of blinking, the consulting detective is doing a fair bit of that, before deciding to enquire, “Stepford…?” unwilling to repeat the other word. Oh God – he must think John is coming onto him and uncomfortable, and possibly the ‘married to my work’ spiel is about to be repeated.

“Pop reference,” the doctor hurries to say, and the lovely blush disappears, but Sherlock relaxes too – not about to bolt or snap. “The classic perfect housewife dream of every man in 1950s. and apparently of some idiots even now, but they must want to be bored to death. There’s a twist, but I think we should really watch that instead of me just summing it for you.”   

At that, the detective pouts. “If you don’t like me trying to be considerate…”

Finally, John’s eyes narrow, while he moves to snatch himself a toast (and honey, on principle, just because it’s Sherlock’s favourite). “But you’re not. Not usually, at least. And what might have prompted this, mmm? Let’s see how I manage to deduce.”

Sherlock gives him the go ahead with a languid wave, clearly not impressed with the man’s intentions.

“I happen to have lost a day. A whole fucking day, full 24 hour, because I might have sworn on my life it was Wednesday. Now, what might have caused that? No binge drinking, I should have the mother of all hangovers, and I don’t. No early onset Alzheimer, there would have been previous symptoms. One doesn’t go from perfect memory to losing days in the blink of an eye. That applies to most other brain-damaging illnesses, too. Traumatic amnesia? I lack the trauma in the first place. At the very least, I’d have a bump, if not worse. Drugs? Sure, that is possible. But they’re not my idea of a fun time, so they would have to have been administered without my consent. And accidentally, my former junkie flatmate is oh so very – and atypically – thoughtful…what might be the cause of _that_? Guilt, maybe?” the doctor harangues heatedly.

The sleuth has to concede it: for a first autonomous attempt at deduction, it’s impressive. But it is on a medical issue, and John is a very good doctor – so it is to be expected. Instead of denying the obvious, he hurries to refute the one accusation he finds most insulting. “It was not for fun!”

“Then what?” John asks, glowering at him.

“For science, John!” he declares, just about biting down an ‘obviously’. After all, “To obtain the answers I need but that I still lack because I got too entranced by the details of your not exactly willingly shared family life,” would probably do nothing to placate the man. But he should understand the preoccupation of a scientist.

The former soldier’s frown doesn’t abate at all – if anything, he’s certainly broadcasting, “I know ways to maim you even _you_ can’t imagine, consulting detective and all”. So the sleuth petulantly adds, “You haven’t even missed work! I dosed you once you got back home, so seriously, what’s the big deal?”   

John can’t help it. He groans in despair. Sherlock really doesn’t get it, does he? “The ‘big deal’ is that you gave me something that wiped out 24 hours that happened both before and after his administration, and ‘for science’ means you weren’t sure of its effects… you could have murdered me, Sherlock! That goes beyond a bit not good.”  

The sleuth huffs. “Don’t be so dramatic, John. I had it perfectly under control. True, I might not entirely be aware of the formulation’s consequences, but I was absolutely sure it would not be lethal.”

“Dramatic? I’m the dramatic one, now?” John is not raising his voice; if anything, he softens it. From his flatmate’s frown, it’s clear that he suspects at least that this means he should seriously start to worry, and preferably back away. “Well, I hope you got all your data – or your fun, because I’m still not convinced this isn’t what this was about. Because I promise you, Sherlock, if I lose any more days, you won’t like my reaction.”

“What? Oh, come on, John! I understand wanting to be abreast of my experimentation, but say I tell you Friday I’m going to dose you the following day. It’s not like you ever do anything but be unspeakably dull on Saturdays, unless we have a case. I’ll make sure you take notes of any message you receive. There are details I still need to analyse. And with these side effects, it’s not like it would be feasible to experiment on myself. Why would you want to impede the progress of science?” the consulting detective protests, as if the blond was the unreasonable one. 

“Because you’re not curing cancer, or Alzheimer, or whatever. If anything, you might hasten their insurgence. There’s a reason experiments have strict protocols, and one starts on animals first. Science doesn’t progresses by drugging unwilling people anymore. And thank God for that!” the doctor lectures, glaring daggers at the madman.    

“If you weren’t so unreasonably unwilling, I wouldn’t need to be sneaky about it! And I wouldn’t be able to suss accurate data from animals,” Sherlock retorts, throwing his arms in the air in frustration. 

“I don’t know if you thought it would, but this doesn’t make it better, Sherlock. Seriously,” John replies, crossing his arms. “You don’t want to cross me about this.”

“Is that a threat, John?” the sleuth hisses angrily. As if  John had been the one mistreating him. John has been a soldier, but the consulting detective has been taking on criminals for years before his blogger came along.

Maybe a scuffle will help vent their apparently reciprocal pent-up grievances, the devil on the doctor’s shoulder whispers. Thank God, he has still enough sense to shudder at the prospect. “What? No!” he blurts out, looking as aghast as he feels. “I thought you needed a flatmate, though, and if I can’t feel safe in my own home, you’ll leave me no choice.”

The detective swallows once, before stalking to the sitting room and flouncing on the sofa, back to the cruel world. “Oh, fine,” he mumbles. “No more missing days. But you’ll have to live with the consequences.”

“Now you’re the one being ominous,” John yells at him, around a bite. Rude, yes. He’s not much in the mood for finesse.   

“Don’t be stupid! As if I would willingly let you be hurt!” Sherlock growls back, curling up even more.

“That’s actually sweet, but try to prove it, will you?” the doctor asks. The last bite, and he follows the most maddening man alive to the other room. They can get around to clearing the table later.

The sleuth huffs wordlessly, apparently not believing him worth of an explicit acknowledgment. The blogger is so badly tempted to pet the sulky, overgrown child, but stills himself. The consulting detective is not actually a child, and offering affection when he’s been used as guinea pig without his consent would be sending the wrong message.

“Suit yourself,” John sighs, instead. “I’ll go get dressed…and consider if I want the public to know how wild the life around you is.”

“You adore it,” Sherlock retorts, refusing to turn around still.

“Are you talking to the cushion?” the doctor quips, smiling. “Because I suspect that not even it appreciates the things it’s gone through.” His flatmate has little respect for people; the furniture, if it could talk, would undoubtedly have nightmarish tales to tell.

“Idiot,” the detective mumbles, without heat.

“Git,” John replies fondly. “You’re lucky I don’t have anywhere else to go.” He’s joking, of course. You couldn’t make him leave Sherlock at gunpoint. But his soulmate (after Irene’s revelations, the chances that they’re actually soulmates and, very simply, he didn’t pass muster shot up) needs to have some rules set for him. And no one else is going to.     

The consulting detective is grumbling something, but if he waits for the conversation to end, with the man’s pet peeve for having the last word, John will be undressed all day. So he just does what he’s announced. The sleuth needs to know that he will stick by his word.

Actually, now that he thinks about it, he sounds considerably as someone trying to train a puppy, he ponders with a secret smile. Which is weird, because he would swear that if Sherlock were to be suddenly turned into a pet, he would be a cat. So does this mean that everything he does is destined to be in vain? Cats are famous for training their owners, instead of the inverse, and God help him, the sleuth is already more than halfway done with him, if he’s honest. Should he just give up any hope of enforcing the most basic of limits?

No, he cannot give up hope. Otherwise, he could as well leave Baker Street. True, it feels like that might rip him apart, and he’s afraid he wouldn’t be able to go through with it. But losing days whenever Sherlock feels like it? Being a guinea pig at any moment? Not knowing what any cup of tea or rice leftover might hold? He’d lose his last shred of sanity, and while he’s never minded life being interesting, he needs to know that Sherlock is not an enemy. A fascinating asshole, sure. A maddening genius, of course. But ultimately on his side. John is not a worthy soulmate, and that’s logic, and fine. But he needs to be something more than a convenient guinea pig, thank you very much.          


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: nothing mine. Duh.

In the following days, Sherlock considers his chances. Technically, he _could_ drug John again –its effectiveness has been proven, and his soulmate would have no choice but to confess. He could know everything. Every single reason the idea of being his makes John balk. The sleuth expects there would be quite a list. Then again, what if John follows through with his threat?

John leaving. John shutting him entirely out of his life, not just his bed or his romantic endeavours or whatever else he’d clearly not good enough for. It would murder him. Well, he would kill himself. It’s a scary thought, but he might as well admit the truth, if only to himself. Now that he’s had a taste of his soulmate’s companionship, the mere idea of being forsaken entirely makes him physically ill, bile rising in his throat. It’s pathetic of him, but he’ll take whatever he can get. 

So no, no more truth serum for his blogger. At least not until he’s managed to eliminate the unforeseen amnesia side effect. This leaves him – as always – with only his own speculations for company in the long hours between cases, when John is at work and the sleuth is abandoned to the tough mercies of his own restless brain.     

He has acquired so much new data about his soulmate, after all. Surely this should help him to figure out why, exactly, the man balks at the idea of any relationship beyond the mere cohabitation between them. The new knowledge should make Sherlock happier, but honestly, it makes him only bitter.

He’s the first to admit he’s not a perfect man. Why, he could write you a bullet point list going on for at least ten pages of things he does, says, _is_ , that would make any sane person run for the hills. Some of these he could easily change, if only he bothered to do so. Some would require most extensive intervention, both on a physical and psychological level, and he wouldn’t do that for anyone. Well, unless he was beyond sure that his own metamorphosis would secure him John forever. 

But the whispered confessions of his soulmate (because John is, he _is_ , no matter how bad the man wants to deny it) make the sleuth wonder if his deadly sin is not being annoying, arrogant, or childish. Not being too pale, or too skinny. Not even microwaving eyeballs and leaving mould cultures in the bathroom.   

No, the one thing that is utterly wrong with him is something Sherlock can’t help. Not without changing his whole identity, and he’s not going to. Not even for a soulmate. Besides, it’s beyond hypocritical of John to demand it of him (not that he still has – not in so many words), when his blogger shares the very same characteristic. What characteristic? Being a man.

John has muttered about his father and the man’s obsession for continuing his line. Just as well that he’s dead already, because the temptation to meet him and point out how unwise that project is could prove overwhelming for the sleuth. It’s not that he wishes that Watson senior had never reproduced – if he hadn’t, there wouldn’t have been a soulmate for Sherlock to obsess over. But his genetic material clearly wasn’t stellar enough to render it being lost a tragedy.

It’s not that the consulting detective is some sort of eugenics advocate, or if he is, he lacks the hubris of most people endorsing this opinion, who somehow always think _their_ genes are good enough to pass down. No, Sherlock has never minded that he wouldn’t have heirs with his soulmate – not the natural way, at least. After all, he might be moderately clever (Mycroft concedes, now), but there’s that pesky tendency to addiction to consider. And even besides that, brains in his family – no matter how sharp, or perhaps _becaus_ e of it – can eat themselves alive, making the Holmes boys rather hard to deal with. So no, the detective has never thought that his genes’ persistence should particularly be ensured.     

And yes, Sherlock is ready to believe that John hangs the sun in the sky every morning (yep, the common idiom might mention the moon, but John is definitely a sun type of person, brighter than a mere moon can hope to be). For all his knowledge of astronomy, it might even be true – though, unless John can do it in his sleep, the evidence is against it, because Sherlock has seen more dawns than his frustrating flat(soul)mate. John is handsome and brave and has the best aim the detective has ever seen.

This doesn’t mean that the Watson genes require passing down to such an extent that anyone unable to do so should be deemed unworthy of being one’s companion. They have their own deficits (including, from what John said, the same tendency of Sherlock’s towards addiction, with only a different poison of choice in alcohol).

Besides, the best qualities of his blogger are not natural talents, but learned, and if he’s secretly so obsessed with children, he could pass them on even if they adopted. John’s kindness. His bravery. His empathy. His sense of justice. Heck, even his cooking ability. They are all his own, certainly not genetic hand-outs from his ancestors. And the same way Sherlock is trying – slowly, looking to his soulmate for guidance – to better himself and acquire at least part of the ones he lacks, any child could do the same. Any child would, because who wouldn’t want to be just like John?

If his blogger doesn’t realise as much, he’s even blinder than the sleuth has always thought. Of course, it might not be that at all to turn John off him – God knows he doesn’t lack flaws. But there’s another hint about that, making the detective so angry he can barely contain himself.  John’s girlfriends. It appears that the man is not selective at all. Most people have a type – physical, psychological, or further characteristics they’re attracted to (like status, money, etc.). The most you can say about John’s girlfriends is that they’re females.

Brunettes, blondes, redheads, skinny, plump, uni students, freelancers, managers…John will pursue anyone, as long as they have the right anatomy. Which means that said anatomy is all that matters to him, isn’t it? Well, isn’t that…shallow? That looks less like an attempt to indulge in one’s preferred pleasures of the flesh and more like a, “God, please, let me find any ‘carrier’ so I will have followed my father’s diktat, even when I’m perfectly aware the man was an asshole and I’ve done my best not to be like him. Also, he’s dead, so he’s not likely to turn up and scold me.” Honestly, John, what the fuck?          

He doesn’t come out and say as much, of course. He should admit what he’s dosed John with, and all the things he unwillingly confessed, after all. If the doctor is already that miffed about being drugged to begin with, knowing he’s been made to confess the most painful details of his youth is not likely to endear him to John, or make the man receptive to his complaints.

So he does what he can, in the passive-aggressive, loud but wordless way that is his only option. If, instead of being pulled from nightmares and lulled back to sleep by the softest, gentlest of melodies, his doctor is awakened in the middle of the night by a rambunctious rendition of Leporello’s aria, he has only himself to blame.

Mozart and Da Ponte might as well known John, and based their Don Giovanni (aka Don Juan) off him. The catalogue aria – with the thousands of notches in the ladykiller’s belt, divided by nation – is obviously his blogger’s theme song. The fact that John doesn’t realise as much – Sherlock highly doubts that his soulmate is well-versed in operas – doesn’t mean that he can object. He’s warned John about the violin since the start.

And the doctor doesn’t – not as such. What he does, though, wrong-foots the detective. As always. Instead of yelling, or thumping with the first object at hand to make him stop, or ignoring him and make a mental note to buy ear plugs (it’s a wonder he doesn’t own any still, actually), John pads downstairs. And then he asks softly, “Penny for your thoughts?”

That gets the sleuth to stop his racket. “Why?” he queries, turning fully towards John, needing to examine and deduce him, instead of pretending he’s uninterested in his *flat*mate.

“Well, you said you play the violin when you’re thinking,” John mumbles, ending with a giant yawn. “You clearly have much to think about at the moment…So I was thinking, you know. Maybe talking out loud would help. Having to actually explain things forces you to clarify your ideas. Tried and tested in uni.”

“You want to…help me reach a conclusion?” Sherlock asks, putting his instrument down without even realising, because why isn’t John following pattern and hating him now – for a good, sensible reason at least?

His blogger yawns again. “Since you won’t let me sleep anyway…figured that the quicker you solved whatever, the quicker we could all go back to bed,” he replies, shrugging. He doesn’t demand the detective to bring his thinking elsewhere. He doesn’t threaten to break the fucking violin unless it’s silenced.

He just breaks Sherlock’s heart all over again, because he’s starting to think why people would suspect an intelligent being to be behind the soulmate imprinting. John is really perfect to be his companion… if only he could tolerate the idea of it. “Go back to sleep,” the sleuth murmurs, putting the violin back in its case, so that the doctor will see and not doubt that the concert will restart as soon as he’s out of sight. “I think you just helped me solve it.” He doesn’t offer details, of course. John is too tired to care at the moment anyway.         

“Good to know,” his blogger replies, “Good night, Sherlock.” He walks back up to his room, in a daze…and Sherlock gives up and imitates him, by trudging to his own bedroom. He doesn’t believe he will be able to sleep – his brain too full of confusion to settle – but he might as well ponder while horizontal.

In the end, the sleuth does fall asleep, fifteen minutes later, in the midst of a debate on the relative influence of nature vs. nurture – as well as  a side enquire about if whatever determines the soulmarks should be considered nature, or if some sort of ridiculous notion like fate should indeed be considered. After all, that the matches – the ones that find each other, anyway – are indeed one another’s perfect companions sounds like a statistical improbability.

Before, he would have surmised that the ones who did find each other exaggerated their compatibility to begin with, because of societal pressure. But having someone who refuses the status, and yet is so…caring, when the detective is doing his level best to be obnoxious, he’s starting to suspect the old tales might have a point. 

He can never reach a conclusion, and isn’t that galling. But it is possible to slip from mind palace to REM sleep – and dreams he frankly…didn’t expect, not with how upsetting the matter seems to be to both of them (more so for John when he’s involved). It’s even easy.     

He wakes up on the cusp of fulfilment (because the universe hates him), biting back a whimper. Why couldn’t he sleep another fifty seconds? The fact is, he can’t finish – not while thinking of John, when the man so clearly and loudly refuses to be his partner, and certainly not while thinking of anyone else. It’s maddening. His body knows what it wants (and it wants it _now_ …or, preferably, thirty seconds ago), while his brain balks at it.

It’s happened other times, of course, since John moved in. But before, he always finished in his sleep, and he could tell himself it was physiological, that it didn’t matter, that he didn’t even remember his dreams (he did). Now, he has to consciously take the decision to indulge – to fantasise – and it’s not fair. It’s not fair, when he yearns, but the fear that John – even oblivious as it is – would read his actions, written all across his body for anyone to notice, and be angry.

So he fists the sheets and waits, tries to think about anything else but how easy it would be to…but you know how it is when trying not to think of something. Why does his transport hate him so? And his brain should really know better. He whimpers, then decides that the way to distract one’s brain and body – if his mind palace fails him (and that’s cruel) – is the internet. Stretching one hand to get his phone on the side table, he opens a tab randomly, not even noticing what he’s clicked.

Oh. It was the ‘for the purpose of blackmail’ favourite videos. Mrs. Hudson’s exotic dancing. That is a lucky strike – doesn’t that work wonders to kill his libido entirely. Thank God – he was so high-strung a minute ago he wouldn’t even have managed to get himself under the shower for a cold one without snapping.

John appears entirely unaware of his flatmate’s plight, and chooses to ignore the nighty stint, considering it just one of Sherlock's many quirks. He never asks what case the other man was working on. After all, he would probably be told that he can't understand, or that it's already finished and so boring.

Luckily for everyone's sanity, they have another case the following day - even if, once again, the sleuth is deeply disappointed. Just someone that 'invited' them to a crime they had committed, wondering if the consulting criminal is, indeed, as great as everyone says. Well, as John's blog says.

John can't help but wonder if Ella's suggestion is doing more harm than good. Sure, he's happier than he's even been. But this comes from Sherlock, from being allowed to participate in the Work, not from his readers (numerous or aristocratic as they are), or what little fame he's acquired.

Sure, his posts gain them clients - and the consulting detective needs all the cases he can get, so John is not about to stop. But stalkers and other various insane people seem to religiously check his updates, too. How many more madmen will find them because John puts them out there? He ponders the question for a good half an hour, before giving up his worries. He'll just have to protect his friend from whatever threat comes across them.

That’s his whole point, after all. Sure, he’s a doctor, and – at the moment – late for work, so he better run. He’s a biographer/PR man, too, but given how miffed Sherlock is by the ‘unscientific’ style of his blog, he’d be fired twice daily if that was his main use.  He’s a cook, when his conscience insists that they cannot survive on takeaway, but Mrs. Hudson could easily replace him for that…to his great relief every time he has to go to a conference and leave the sleuth alone). He’s an all-around PA, official Passer of Pens and Phones and why is he visualising this in all capitals? He needs more coffee before he goes spare.

But most of all, he’s the consulting detectives’s live-in bodyguard, running after him at the drop of a hat and ensuring that the man has _some_ form of backup. God knows that the man seems allergic to it at times. One’d think that Sherlock is trying to get himself murdered, eventually. It might explain why he does his best to drive everyone he meets to a murderous rage on a regular basis…John included.

No, no, he needs to stop being distracted. Work first. His frustrating flatmate later. His work is certainly enough to keep him busy. John rushes out of the door, and for the rest of the day he has barely time to go to the bathroom between patients, a seemingly endless line of coughs (one whooping), flu, upset stomachs and other assorted illnesses. None is serious, luckily for his patients, but their sheer number is exhausting.       

He trudges back home, hoping to God that his flatmate has not indulged in experiments that have required the intervention of firefighters, or left him a bigger mess than he’s equipped to deal with (and he’s equipped for very little at the moment).

Thankfully, the flat is not a warzone, but when Sherlock takes a look at him and warns, “I know you want to wash the hospital off you, but three minutes, please!” before darting into the bathroom, he sighs. He should be thankful that the chaos has been confined to one room, he supposes. Better not to think too deeply about what might currently reside in their sink. He just hopes the man remembers to disinfect it properly, but he probably should give it an extra wipe, just in case.

He hopes for a not-bloody bathroom at best; entering the room at Sherlock’s call to find it filled with at least thirty flickering candles, the tub filled (with just water, it appears) and a flatmate with an expectant look in his face makes him stop and laugh. “I’ve already published that blog post, you know. Don’t you think that immediately reusing the murder method would be a bit of a giveaway even for the Yarders? I’m not even questioning your intention to murder me, but really, I expected better of you,” he teases.

Sherlock pouts, because of course he does. “Now you’re being purposefully obnoxious. Of _course_ I could murder you anytime without rousing suspicion, but this isn’t about that. I’d always known you like long baths, your one indulgence you’d really missed in the army, and you know, unless we get a case midway, I’m more than happy to leave you to it. But I’d always thought all you needed was water and time, and this last case evidenced that maybe I’d missed a detail,” he retorts.

“Did you now?” John asks, tiredness momentarily forgotten in the pleasure of banter.

“You looked positively wistful seeing the murder weapon,” the sleuth declares, “and as if you thought it a horrible waste of nice things. So I went and got you a few of these. Thought you might…like them today, given the day you had. You can keep the bathroom door open if it reassures you, I have no objections.”

Had he looked wistful? He didn’t think he had, but figures that for the world’s only consulting detective he’s always an open book. That Sherlock knows how draining his day has been is expected, really. But for him to go out and get him all this without a request is amazing – and baffling. The detective has gone shopping. Willingly. For him. John is tempted to pinch himself hard, but doesn’t. If he is actually dreaming (and it certainly looks like the most probable option), he doesn’t want it to stop.       

Hoping that his slowness to reply will be tagged down to fatigue and not to being absolutely stunned, the blogger quips, “Thanks, but I’ll pass. Not on your kind extra, thanks by the way, but on the open door option. Part of the luxury we didn’t get in the army was privacy, you know.”

The consulting detective frowns, frustrated at himself. “Of course. Always missing something. Well, then – enjoy,” he says, before disappearing back into his room.

And John does, oh how he does. He undresses quickly and sinks in the water, unable to repress a groan of pleasure. It’s hot just as he likes. Is he so predictable that Sherlock can draw him a bath this perfect? One’d think that at least London traffic is chaotic enough to make such an endeavour impossible. (Unless…no, of course he wouldn’t enlist Mycroft’s help.)

Some of the candles are scented, but it is a subtle smell that just relaxes him further. Most of them are there just to please the eye, though, and – because Sherlock is nothing if not thorough – in a veritable rainbow of nuances. The doctor half expects to have to fill a chart afterwards, grading the hues for their effect on his nerves or something. An unbidden smile lingers on his lips.

For a moment, he wonders when was the last time someone did this for him. After a good long pondering,  he suspects – with a point of sadness – that nobody ever did. He’s the one who usually goes all-out romantic for his girlfriend, which is only proper, he supposes. And usually now, his relationships end too soon for any girl to become too invested in him, true.

But why has no one tried to spoil him before Sherlock entered the picture? Do people reserve their more attentive side only to their soulmates? That seems hardly fair, with how many people never find theirs.  

And sure, the tub might not be the place to rethink relationships’ dynamic – in the world at large and his especially – but actually, why not? He has time, quiet (because his flatmate doesn’t seem – luckily for him – to be engaging in anything destructive) and no other urges.

Part of him wonders why he’s even kept the dating game so long when most of the effort was his own… and since he’s ready to admit he’s not the most fully dedicated person, what does this make his partners? Of course he’s never been too deeply upset by losing them. He must have sensed that they weren’t too dedicated, either.        

Why is he even still trying to find a girl or another, then? He has Sherlock. And yes, the consulting detective is not interested in having sex with him, but there’s so much more that he receives. Purpose, mostly – what he’d lost after the war, but really, the man always amazes him. When he’s in the mood, like tonight, John will find himself utterly spoiled.

Sex is important, of course. But is it worth the amount of effort he puts in that, when he could spare time, money and stress and just buy a toy or two? …After all, he has found his soulmate. Irene’s hints make it so much more probable. Sherlock might not want to acknowledge it (after all, John is not someone you can flaunt around), but he’s certainly being thoughtful when John needs it. Their relationship might not be one of these romances novels are made of (not even Harry, who read them all, ever mentioned body parts in the fridge) but isn’t this the point of soulmates? That they’re what you need?

True, there’s still a chance that Sherlock is a homonym and his soulmate, if not dead, is somewhere out there and he didn’t feel like discussing it. though, John is taking his bet. Not pushing it, of course. It would be bad form to ask to discuss what they’re so happily ignoring. If the sleuth wants to pretend they’re just flatmates, he certainly has a right to do so. 

It doesn’t mean that John has to keep up his side of the game. Besides, with how often the consulting detective ‘accidentally’ interrupted his dates, with an excuse or another (mostly cases, of course), he doubts that Sherlock will object or mock him if his relationships end on the backburner for a while. Just a little while.

In the meantime, he can figure out if the man is indeed his soulmate (probabilities right now look around 88%), and if there’s any way he can persuade Sherlock to give them a chance. Not necessarily in the physical side of things, more in the ‘reciprocal acknowledgment’ matter. Preferably a public one, but he doesn’t want to push the detective too far. Just a “You’re mine, and I’m not going to toss you into the bin anytime soon,” would be nice to hear.

A yelled, “Dinner’s ready,” is almost as nice in the moment. The doctor fully expected to have to fend for himself (and his friend) once he finally dragged himself out of the tub. That the sleuth thought to procure food too…well, that’s sweet. Not an adjective most would associate with the consulting detective, true, but then again, most people don’t know him. (Does he, even? He’s not sure.) 

So he sighs, gets out of the tub and towels himself swiftly before putting on a bathrobe. There’s a delicious smell wafting in, and while he’s pretty sure it means Angelo cooked it, so technically the detective shouldn’t have used ‘ready’ so much as ‘here’, John isn’t going to nitpick it. Sherlock still ordered, somehow divining  (sorry, deducing) what he would crave.

The least he can do is thank him in earnest and tuck in, licking his lips without even realising. The sleuth’s smug smile is well deserved, so the doctor doesn’t feel even the lightest flicker of annoyance he normally would when the man thinks he can just push people around. This is not being domineering. This is using that brilliant brain of his to please the people in his life and ensure they have everything they can wish for.

Christ, but John is the luckiest bloke on Earth. Of course, anyone who’s found one’s soulmate (or is persuaded they have) would subscribe to that. But not all of them get a bloody genius as their own. Now, if only Sherlock wasn’t (most probably) ashamed of him…well, John would die on the spot, his heart imploded by sheer happiness, probably. So maybe things happen for a reason, like his ma used to say.      


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own a thing.

Sherlock used to not need to remind himself not to stare. After all, a quick look was enough to figure out most people, and any temptation of his transport (he’s human, after all) was easily beaten by reminding himself that nobody would tolerate him anyway.

But John just out of a long bath, with a lovely flush and a few stray droplets still clinging to his skin, is a vision. Too beautiful for words, no matter how many the detective knows, even in an old, faded bathrobe. Frankly, it’s unfair.   

He forces himself to look away, at his own plate which he’s apparently filled without noticing while getting the table ready. How hasn’t he realised what he was doing? Well, that doesn’t need the world’s only consulting detective to solve. Anyone (possibly even Anderson) would – and probably has – figured that out on their own. He has no idea what he’s doing because he’s in love, God help him.

Or he would if he existed, at least. Sherlock knows that many people credit this or that deity with the creation, or at the very least picking, of soulmates. Frankly, in his opinion the staggering amount of individuals who never meet their fated one is evidence enough that no gods need apply.   

After all, even an entirely human average teacher can control the seating of their pupils, if necessary to separate a particularly disruptive group of friends or in hope that a child will benefit from being close to another. And a supposedly all-powerful being who takes pain to etch into every person individually the name of their soulmate can’t figure out how to ensure that, at least, they’re born in the same nation, so that a central national database might pair them all? Obviously it’d take a few tries because of the homonyms, but still, finding someone in one’s own country is way better than looking for them in the whole world. There’s no wonder so many settle for the wrong one.

Not that he personally would have, but still. People are mostly idiots. And he really needs to stop his wayward brain from wandering and actually eat some of the food he has on his plate before John starts nagging him about it.   

At least now his flat(soul)mate is being quiet, tucking with relish into his own food, not forcing Sherlock to make vapid conversation. With how distracted he is, his mind wandering everywhere in a pitiful attempt not to concentrate too long on John himself and how desperately he obsesses over the other man, it would be simply impossible to be coherent. 

It slips out of his mouth without Sherlock even realising it. “You have a gift for silence, John.” The look he receives clearly asks if he’s pulling his blogger’s leg, or maybe being sarcastic. “”I mean it. There’s no need to talk with you – no, this sounds wrong, I’m trying to say you don’t mind some blessed quiet – you’re not and you don’t make people awkward and uncomfortable even without empty chatter to take up space. And that’s good. You radiate peace. I like that,” the sleuth adds softly.

“Uh…thanks. Not sure I entirely deserve your praise, but I’m glad. With you literally shooting the walls in boredom, you can’t be entirely surprised that I’d cherish quiet when I got it,” John replies, with a half-grin. “And since we’re sharing what we like, thanks for getting dinner…and for guessing which dish I was in the mood for.”

“Deducing, John,” the consulting detective corrects absentmindedly. “Besides, you have obvious patterns according to the weather, the…”

“You’re a genius, that’s a given,” the doctor cuts in, “but don’t explain too many details to me or I’ll become really self-conscious.”

“There’s no need to be. I have patterns too,” Sherlock admits, shrugging.

John only nods, as if he’s simply agreeing with whatever the other man is saying, maybe even without paying much attention. The sleuth suspects that his own patterns are close to bring entirely figured out, if one accounts for the easiness John can coax him into eating nowadays.       

  If he’s not careful, his blogger will turn him into his big brother, _before_ he discovered food groups. Mycroft was huge as a kid…fine, not huge, just a bit chubby, but to the willowy child that Sherlock was he looked like a walrus, especially during the holidays at the beach.

His brother used to reward himself with food, and, well, he’s always been good. Then suddenly Mycroft was responsible for the family, and of course, he researched. If he needed to feed his little brother/charge – and God knows that, unlike him, the future sleuth has always been a very picky eater – he had to be able to do so in the healthiest way possible. Between the new knowledge and puberty, the new Mycroft – who oversee caloric intake just as strictly as international treatises – was born.  

So, well, Sherlock needs to keep an eye out for that, too. He’s already taken a few pounds, and the least he wants is to give ammunition to his brother to turn all the teasing against him. And it’s not like his reluctant soulmate doesn’t offer plenty of distractions from food. John eats in a most maddening way. It’s not  meant to be teasing, or erotic, or anything of that drivel – he’s very clearly not interested in the sleuth, if anything. But he enjoys himself, and a soft sigh when a particularly tasty morsel hits his palate, or a quick lick to clean stray sauce from his lips are enough to drive the detective crazy, and make him hunger – but not for food.

That should be enough to close Sherlock’s stomach, tying it in helpless knots, ravenous for entirely the wrong thing…And yep, if he sometimes nonchalantly helps himself to whatever is on his blogger’s plate, this is partly the reason – everything looks so much more palatable the closer it is to the exasperatingly perfect man.  

But there’s one terrible threat to the consulting detective’s shape, and it’s much worse than a few stolen bites. John wants him to eat – as regularly as possible, apparently out of entirely misplaced doctorly concerns. And part of him – the one half-stubborn, half-desperate and all irrational, who hasn’t given up on somehow earning his soulmate’s eventual acceptance – wants to please John. Very much so. A concerned look, a soft, “Something wrong with your food?” are enough for Sherlock to shovel food into his mouth. 

That urge to please, though, can have  – and has – much worse consequences than a few pounds. Because John is a doctor to the marrow, and won’t stop bothering him about a seemingly infinite list of subjects. His attempt to supervise Sherlock’s food intake and sleep patterns are actually the mildest symptoms.

It’s from the first case that his flatmate has been frowning at the sleuth’s nicotine use, huffing anytime he tried to put on more than one patch and glaring at the faintest whiff of smoke smell emanating from his clothes. Annoyed as he’s been, Sherlock has immediately learned not to dare smoke in the other man’s presence. A shared fag might be one of the few moments he’s not arguing with his brother, but with John, socializing will sooner involve bullets than cigarettes.    

And yes, he’s come to rely on the sweet song of nicotine to help his brain during taxing cases, but that was before, wasn’t he? When the only one he had to bounce thoughts off was Billy the skull. When he had to rely only on himself – and enhance his results in whichever way he could.

“You’re not alone anymore,” whispers Teen Sherlock, lovestruck fool that he is. “John will help out on cases, even if he should forever refuse to get…involved…more deeply. Do you really need tobacco when you have him?”        

Mind Palace Mycroft, darker and crueller and oh-so-hatefully reasonable as he usually is, queries, “The question is…how long until you don’t have him anymore, if you keep up your self-destructive (in his medically formed opinion) tendencies? Will he stay as long as you provide him with cases, truly? Or will he get bored of preaching to someone who’s too stubborn for their own good?”

It sounds stupid, petty, that a soulmate bond might break up over tobacco. Such a bond is supposed to be unshakable by its very nature. But the detective has to admit that their relationship is peculiar – intimate and (for now) platonic, unspoken and blazing. At least on his own side. On John’s side…it’s a mystery. A riddle he can’t solve.  But he knows one thing – he can’t risk losing his blogger. He would lose his sanity and, in a very short order, his very life.

Until not so long ago, there were doubt and cases and distraction of all kinds to allow him to ignore the smoking issue. But now, it’s at the forefront of the detective’s mind. Since realising he’s not good enough, he has upped his bad habit, he knows. But it’s not just a brain-enhancing drug. It’s a familiar comfort, a way to relax. And with his soulmate’s rejection smarting, he needs all the small comforts he can allow himself.      

Not if it destroys them entirely, though. Which is the reason he  reacts at the nth glare from his blogger, when he tries to quietly slip out an evening for a stroll, obviously implying a cigarette or two, with, “Do you really care so much? I’m not subjecting you to second-hand smoke.” Sherlock isn’t even sure why these exact words slipped out, they certainly are dangerous. But he needs to gauge how serious John is on the issue.

“Of course I do, you dolt. It might surprise you, but this was never about me. I mean, when you try to get yourself killed by running recklessly after some murderer or another, at least I can follow and make sure you’ll be safe. But with nicotine you’re hurting yourself – on the long run, I know. But I’d like to imagine you’ll be around long enough for that to be a concern,” the doctor huffs fondly.

“You want me around? Long term?” The detective can’t help but echo it, despite his hatred of repetition. Of course, John is attracted to the cases – he knew that. But unless he’s very much unlucky, the results of his smoking habit won’t haunt him until they’ll both be too old for the regular doses of adrenaline to be advisable, or healthy. Retirement is a thing for a reason. And yes, John might have said –written, even – that he wanted them to be together still in their dotage, but a part of Sherlock has not believed him then. Will never believe him until he’s accepted as a proper soulmate.

John huffs a soft chuckle. “Of course I do! I’m here, ain’t I? I would have run for the hills ages ago if I was interested only in a short-term stint.”

“Am I not, not ain’t,” Sherlock corrects without thinking.

 “Yes, yes, sorry. When did you swallow a dictionary, just out of curiosity?” his blogger retorts, with a lopsided grin.

“Honestly, John. If I’ve swallowed anything, according to your colourful metaphor, it was a grammar handbook. You’re the one who’s a walking dictionary, or rather, thesaurus,” the sleuth huffs.

“Well, thanks. Do I get the title for a few brilliant and amazing?” the doctor asks, raising an amused eyebrow.

“You’re grossly downplaying your ability to find new synonyms for a single concept, and you know it,” the consulting detective remarks, keeping his annoyance reined in. Underestimating oneself is not ‘polite’ for him, or humble, or whatever adjective people like to stick to it. It’s a lie, and an unneeded one.      

John grins at him, a bit proudly. And he has a right to be. As much as Sherlock criticises his style, he’s addicted to the man’s praise – the more public the better.

“Anyway…well, if you were speaking not as an annoyed flatmate, but as a doctor…and, well, as someone who wants to keep me alive – I admit that’s still a sort of new concept for me, if you exclude Mycroft – I suppose I should give you a chance. After all, only a fool argues with his doctor,” the sleuth remarks, aiming for casual, but hating how awkward he feels. It’s supposed to be just a simple offer. It shouldn’t be obvious how much rides on that for him (avoiding his soulmate’s possible abandonment).

“Would you? Really?” the doctor asks, more shocked than he really should be. After all, the detective never acts expressly to annoy him (unless they’re having what Mrs  Hudson would call a domestic). How can the man not have picked on how compliant the detective is to his wishes?

“I just said so. And I don’t lie…” Sherlock states, but his blogger’s disbelieving look makes him quickly add, “…needlessly. Why should I say I would if I didn’t mean to? It’d only cause me to need to be even more sneaky about my occasional smoking than I already am. Besides, I still have my patches, and…”

That makes John snap. “Oh no, mister. No patches. You already use multiple patches as thinking aid. Start using them the way they were intended to in the first place, and you’d stick so many on yourself that you’ll manage to give yourself nicotine poisoning,” he declares, crossing his arms, the very picture of sternness.

The shocked expression on the sleuth’s face is downright comical, but he doesn’t crack a grin. It’s like when raising any child or pup – you can’t just back down because they’re cute. There is his friend’s health on the line, and he’ll be damned if he lets the stubborn man destroy it.

“So you’re proposing that I use them just for cases?” the detective asks, raising a disbelieving eyebrow.

“Actually, I’d like to propose that you stop using the patches too, period. The nicotine is an addiction like any other…but once you stop, it’ll clear out of your body eventually. It’ll be like if you never started smoking. And you’ll see the advantages, too. Your senses will become sharper…” John expounds, hoping that would convince him. After all, it would help with the Work.

Instead, Sherlock cuts in, “That seems like a flaw, if anything. My senses are sharp enough as it is. Any more, and you’ll risk sending me in an overwhelmed meltdown.” 

“We can cross that bridge when it comes to it. You’re clever, you’ll figure out how to cope. But I am serious, it would help you to be able to smell better. I’ve noticed – and believe me, anyone in Scotland Yard has too – your reckless penchant for licking and tasting random substances at crime scenes…and that’s another health hazard if ever I’ve seen one. Have you considered that you’re using taste so much because your sense of smell is dulled, and the two are closely linked?” the blogger surmises.    

“I’d never considered that,” the sleuth admits, looking shocked.

“Well, you’re not a doctor,” John remarks, grinning.

“And only a fool argues with his doctor,” the consulting detective acknowledges, smiling back. “I might need your support though if I’m to suspend any nicotine intake.”

“And you have it, of course you do,” the blond earnestly assures.

The detective quite exactly imitates a whirlwind for a while, tearing through the flat (thankfully leaving John’s bedroom alone – given the result, John would be seriously pissed if he needed to) before presenting John with all his stockpile of tobacco related products with a flourish. “Will you take care of safekeeping these for me?” he asks. 

The doctor frowns. “Safekeeping? Why not just throw them away?”  

Sherlock shrugs. “I’m the worst at actually quitting addiction. Believe me, better for you if you have something at hand in case I should be unable to,” he confesses.

“You’re setting yourself up to fail with that reasoning,” John points out, his frown only deepening.

“I do eventually get clean. Have you seen me touch any illegal drug during our flatsharing? It’s not bad knowing oneself. I am moody in my best days – when quitting something, well. You yourself might decide that the perspective of lung cancer is better for me than the certainty of being murdered – if only because you’d go to jail for that,” the sleuth quips.

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m pretty sure Anderson and Donovan would bungle that investigation. The only question is: accidentally or on purpose?” the blogger retorts, an amused glint in his eyes but otherwise maintaining his face serious, if not quite as scowling as before.  

“Both,” the detective admits, and he blurts in a soft giggle.

John joins in, delighted. “You’re right, as always. Well, I’ll trust you to be right now too. I’ll keep these – but you’re not to know what I do with them. Out with you, mister. I’ll hide these where you can’t get them while I am at work. It’s not like I can keep them on my person 24/7.”

“Do you really think I won’t deduce where you put them as soon as I come back?” Sherlock asks, with a slow smile.

“I do. Because your brain will be fighting itself – part of you still wanting to keep your resolution –  and that will ruin your deductive abilities,” his blogger replies, throwing the different boxes on the sitting room table for the moment. “Off with you. Take a walk, go bother Molly…maybe buy the milk, but I don’t want to ask for the impossible.”

“I’ll do you one better,” the detective says, putting on his coat, “I’ll go out like you asked…and I’ll remove temptation while I’m at it.”

“What do you mean?” John asks.

“Instead of running errands, I’ll make sure I can’t do that anymore,” Sherlock quips.

“Do you want to get banned from Tesco? Because it’s not like it’s necessary to ensure I’ll be the one going shopping – I always do that anyway,” the doctor asks, more and more puzzled.

“No need to. I’m already banned, not that it was indispensable for you to know. I’m going to ensure I can’t buy tobacco anywhere I can get to by walking. And I promise to take you along on all cases or whenever I’m out of said zone,” the sleuth explains.

The slow grin spreading on John’s face is so brilliant and utterly adoring that he would never allow it to appear if he was in a position to look at himself in the mirror – too embarrassing. But the mirror is at his back, so he doesn’t control his features, nor the instinctive, soft, “Thank you. That you’d take such a decision by yourself is so important, my dear,” that gushes from his lips.

He doesn’t even imagine that this is an attempt to please him, rather than an attempt at self-care. Sherlock scurries off, with a smile of his own and a slight blush – but that must be because he’s wearing the coat inside and he’s too warm in consequence, certainly not because of his heartfelt praise. If anything, Sherlock must be bored of his admiration.

With the sleuth on his own mission, John tries to think strategically. He has a few different items to hide, and he needs to outsmart the world’s only consulting detective. For all the confidence he exhibited, he wonders for a moment if he hasn’t spoken too soon. Given that no matter how many times he changes his password his flatmate keeps guessing it on the first or second try, it’s clear that his usual reasoning won’t work. The man’s complete lack of respect for anyone’s possession doesn’t help either. He could put the cigarettes in his own underwear drawer, and have Sherlock rooting through it an hour later.

No, he needs to find something the man won’t willingly touch – or something he won’t dismantle, afraid of ruining it. Or both. The blogger walks through the flat, eyeing everything critically to find hiding places that correspond to his needs.

The patches go inside the cupboards, behind the tuna. He has to take a chair to reach it, so the detective won’t think he’d bother hiding them somewhere that is in *his* reach better than John’s own. And if they’re found – well. It’ll be bad, but not tragic. Plenty of people use patches – if only he could convince the man to use one at a time, he would probably have allowed them for a while.

What is more of a quandary is where to put the cigarettes. For a moment, John seriously considers the spices shelf, hoping that the confusion of smells might hide any faint whiff of tobacco they might emanate. He decides against it, though. True, Sherlock tends to ignore the sections of the kitchen that actually concern cooking and can’t be repurposed for use of his domestic laboratory. Even so, hiding everything in there would show a lack of imagination that would undoubtedly gain him the scorn of the consulting detective. 

The doctor continues to pace, frowning. Is there a sacred place where his flatmate won’t snoop? It sounds like a chimera. The skull, from its place on the mantle, almost seems to be following him with empty eyes – and judging. Oh, he’s definitely judging, just like the sleuth will very soon.

“What do you know?” John huffs, because clearly that empty head is destined to be talked to. Whether it is because of some property if its own, or because it’s rooming with two nutters that are, at times, way too lonely, might be up for debate.

That’s when the blogger has his eureka moment. The detective might have handled – and carried – the skull way too often in the past , but now the thing is pretty much ignored, no more than a prized knickknack. Because he’s there, to bounce ideas off, and as stupid as he is in comparison with Sherlock, he’s still a better conversationalist than Billy.

Sherlock’s nickname for it slipped out of him an evening when, after a case, they came home to find it missing. The consulting detective wasn’t pleased – but Mrs. Hudson didn’t seem very apologetic “You can have it back once you bin whatever’s causing this smell,” she had declared, and John still think it was genius.

Anyway, Billy is a great part of what spooked the yarders so bad originally – the reason people like Donovan expect their consultant to snap and murder a dozen people. John wants to scream at them all the time that if they’d just been willing to talk to the sleuth, no Shakespearian scene would ever have happened at crime scenes.     

“You’re going to help me out, aren’t you? It’s not like you want your owner to end up like you too soon. He wouldn’t chat with you anymore,” John cajoles. My god, he’s cajoling a dead skull, he’s gone round the bend.

Of course, the skull doesn’t answer. It would be worrying if it did! Not answering means not protesting or betraying his secrets, too. John, with his sure and delicate army surgeon hands, hides the cigarette pack in the empty depths of the skull – where a brain should be – and carefully places it back on the mantle.  

“It’ll be our little secret, fine, mate?” he jokes. There’s still a chance that Sherlock will figure it out – but at least, if he does, he’s less likely to be careless with it – he wouldn’t want to damage his ‘friend’. And yep, John must have accidentally removed a bit of dust, but Mrs. Hudson can always be blamed for that. The doctor even finds a rag and dusts randomly here and there. After all, Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t stop at a corner of the mantle. Is he going too far? Maybe, but he’s taking care of his (well, his at like 99,99%) soulmate’s health. Certainly that’s worth being thorough.

Afterwards, he sends a quick text, _Home is clear – waiting for you._ _J_

The reply is immediate. _I’ll be back in an hour. Still a bit to do myself. SH_

The blogger sits at the table, opening his computer. He can’t start second-guessing himself, or fretting. Even thinking about what he’s done will facilitate his friend’s deductions, he suspects. So the most sensible thing to do is to just forget the bloody tobacco – and cat memes are the way to go.

Browsing around, he discovers that apparently many people have cats just appearing in their houses, more than once directly on their bed, and John can’t help but be wistful. That’d be a nice wake up call, instead of violin wailing in the deep of the night. Why these things never happen to him?

Then again, it  happening probably requires people to leave either the door or the window open. Unless there’s a Sherlock cat with lock picking skills…that might actually interest the detective. But with the sleuth’s job, and Moriarty still at large, it’s best not to invite any break ins. They would probably be less furry and pleasant than he hopes for.    

Part of him is tempted to have a talk with Sherlock about getting a pet, because the critters are just too cute. Starting more than one major change in one’s life at the same time, though – especially when one requires you taking care of someone else and the other is guaranteed to make you moody – is obviously a bad idea. Someday, maybe. Maybe he can keep it as plan B for the day the man gets bored of him.   

 


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own a thing, obviously

 

Sherlock hates his life. He agreed to John’s request – because he’s in love with the man, has no choice but to be, honestly – without even trying to barter more favourable conditions. After all, this is one of the few obvious demonstrations that his doctor (still his, Teen!Sherlock insists, even when he doesn’t want to be) cares for him.

 Love might be asking too much, but affection, fondness…oh God, he’s turning into a human thesaurus like John…are not out of the question. If John envisions them together, even in an unspoken, platonic way, long after the detective should start worrying about his lungs’ damage, acting out to drive him away sooner is too terrifying a prospect to contemplate.

But the sleuth’s personality has always been terribly addictive. He can – eventually – give up one of his vices, but it’s always when he’s found one – or even several – thing to replace that with. He could throw the cigarettes away – forever, and in a moment. But he needs something in its place. John would be easily a perfect substitute, satisfying every urge and itch in his brain…but only if Sherlock could indulge in his deepest yearnings.   

Not…physical ones, mind you, not the most lewd ones, at least. But a chance at a cuddle not stolen, not passed off as ‘accidental contact’ or ‘just fell asleep next to him on the sofa and leant on him’. The detective really believes that if he could have that, he’d forget about tobacco altogether, his veins singing with the sweet melody of acceptance. As it is, he has nothing, absolutely nothing, and it’s intolerable.

So if he’s a nuisance – purposefully so – who can blame him? He’s just making a point. That he can’t be the only one giving up – nor only giving up, without receiving anything back – if they want him to behave. John seems to worry needlessly about things like ‘decency’ and what will the neighbours think’. Possibly to endear himself to Mrs. Hudson, who has the same hung-ups about the public opinion, though in private she won’t bat an eyelid to anything (Sherlock blames her education).

It’s with a grim satisfaction that he starts his experiment on how much strength is needed to stab someone all the way through with a harpoon. Well, stabbing a pig, which is the closest thing he can get his hands on. Pig and humans are really very close, how anyone who met his brother would have no trouble believing. Even Molly, no matter how partial to him she is, won’t lend him a body fresh enough for the data to be comparable to these of a live one. Not that he can blame her.     

The result is impressive enough all the same…but today’s kids have clearly been brain damaged. The adults – either the cabbies speeding past and glaring at me, or the people in the Tube visibly recoiling – showed common sense when faced with a bloody, armed stranger. For all they knew, I came from a spree killing. But a group of unsupervised teenagers (with most people being stupid, these are guaranteed to be idiots squared) approach him…no, *surround* him, like the pack animals they are.

Then the apparent leader – who’d still get only to Sherlock’s chest if he was standing, and looks unarmed – whistles low and asks, in a weird mix of admiration and spite, “That costume is rad, dude. How did you get it to look so lifelike? Still, isn’t it a bit early for Halloween?”

“The fact that you could live until this age unable to recognise fake blood from true makes me despair for the human race. Please, avoid passing on your clearly defective genes” the sleuth retorts, glaring at them all indistinctly. Honestly. It’s like they’ve never seen actual blood. Even if they didn’t experiment, one’d think that they would have had enough scrapes to recognise the difference.

The other kids snicker, but the one who talked to him hisses angrily, “How did I know you were a freak?” before turning angrily on his heels, his friends – after a moment – following him. The detective is tempted to call after them that having eyes should be sufficient, but keeps it to himself. The other people in the crowded car are already eyeing him suspiciously, and if he looks like he’s trying to provoke them, someone will call the police about the possible murderer who’s still looking for a fight. Everything would be explained away eventually, of course, but Lestrade will be angry if he’s called away from actual work because Sherlock decides to make a scene.  

Sadly, his wish to cause a scene at home goes unanswered. John’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t even get up - not in worry, not in anger, not even to ensure his mad flatmate doesn’t drip blood all over Mrs. Hudson’s nice floors. A mild enquiry, and it’s all. Well, maybe the detective shouldn’t have lamented how boring his day had been – if his doctor had even one moment of worry, that certainly settles it. Sherlock is unhurt, just acting out…and the other man knows that making a fuss when children do that only fuels them, hence why he’s unflappably back to his newspaper. He’s having a bit of light reading, when the sleuth is ready to vibrate out of his skin with nerves. It’s hateful. Well, if it won’t garner him any attention, he might as well shower. It might be remarkably close to the human’s, for scientific purposes, but Sherlock doesn’t really enjoy being covered in pig blood like a butcher who forgot an apron.    

Once he feels more like a human being, it doesn’t stop him from being jittery. He needs something – anything. A case, a smoke, a cuddle, even a hit. If he’s going to be considered a disappointment, he might as well do so fully. Maybe all of them. He feels as if he’s going to vibrate out of his skin for lack of…it all, really. He’s holding on to the harpoon still, because it is a small point of grounding – a physical contact if other kinds of it aren’t going to be allowed. It helps that it  could be a pirate’s weapon. If he’s not going to be allowed to be a soulmate, nor a consulting detective, he can still go back to his childhood dreams and pretend to be a pirate. One would not let himself be constrained in any way. Much less about something as stupid as which substances he’s allowed to put in his own body. He’d kidnap his soulmate, maybe, if he was this reluctant, and win him over with his bravery and cleverness. For which he needs a case.     

And instead of providing him one, so he can prove himself, John keeps reading that stupid newspaper, chattering about politics and boring news. True, his blogger is encouraging – in his soft-spoken way, as if he could placate the frazzled nerves of his companion by sheer osmosis – but it’s not enough. It will never be enough, until he’s enough. Which is why he tries to bargain his way through it. The sleuth won’t ever demand aloud acknowledgment of their bond, but he will ask  and barter in the most outlandish way for his lesser prize. In vain. Oh well, he really should have expected it. John and his bloody morals.

It’s then that he remembers that, when he’s given all his tobacco reserves, he didn’t technically do so. There should still be his emergency supply. It’s not that he was intentionally holding back. It’s just that it didn’t occur to him that these even existed, until he’s been desperate for it. Technically, this qualifies as emergency, doesn’t it? He tries not to think of his secret stashes (for tobacco and…other things) until they become relevant. Not considering them ensures that he never falls into an emergency situation in the first place.

They’re gone. All gone. John has no idea these supplies even existed, the sleuth is sure, so he wouldn’t have looked for them. Which means that it is… “Mrs. Hudson!”               

She appears very quickly…clearly she has been expecting his call. Good. This should go swiftly, then. Only it doesn’t, because she denies what she has obviously done with the most brazen face, looking so deeply innocent. She might have been a dancer in her youth, but she dissimulates well enough that Hollywood obviously lost a first rate star when the late Mr. Hudson swept her off her feet and away from the scenes.   

Well, lying won’t save her now. Oh, no, Sherlock is not going to hit his dear old landlady – he’d rather cut one of his limbs – but he _needs_ , and nobody seems to care (of course she’d take John’s side, despite her still using ‘soothers’… everyone always takes John’s side). So if he deduces the most painful and embarrassing things he can find (at least in recent days – her old hurts need no dredging up), well, hopefully that’ll teach her not to touch his things.

Besides, he might be snappish, but part of him believes he’s being helpful. She wouldn’t want to be even more deeply involved with a bastard that already has two wives, and seems intent on making her number three, would she? No matter how well he bakes or how charming he is. Honestly, at her age, she should be able to pick better. Why would she deny that she started a little tryst, when it’s so obvious that she’s been ‘enjoying’ the man’s company, he has no idea.     

That finally garners him a reaction of some sort. An angry one, of course, because neither of them can see the kindness for what it is, but at least he’s not ignored anymore. Mrs. Hudson storms away in a huff, hopefully to redirect some of that fury on her treacherous paramour. It’s not like it’s the sleuth’s fault that the man can’t stand being alone…or that his conscience insists that there’s no trouble, as long as he’s serious with each of his lovers. Why, in comparison with Mr. Hudson, this is a step up in the relationship department. Mr. Chatterjee wouldn’t hurt physically his landlady…and unless she discovered his other wives (which the detective firmly believes she eventually would, because she’s clever) possibly not even emotionally.

John stops snubbing him, too, if only to lecture him and ordering him around. Now, in any other circumstance, the former captain issuing orders would make Sherlock melt and scramble to obey. But as it is, his frustrations boil over, and he growls back, insulting the man like he’s done to Anderson at his worst…Immediately afterwards, remorseful he tries to explain his situation, how his nerves are about to flitter out of his skin, with a metaphor that John, with his passion for bad scifi, might hopefully understand. Only he doesn’t sound much remorseful, still frustrated beyond belief…

So, instead of receiving some form of sympathy, John reacts only with more – understandable – anger and scorn, when the consulting detective insists he needs a case _now_. He needs cases continuously, because he can’t have anything bloody else. Is it that hard to conceive? John’s blog is supposed to get him cases, according to his arrogant claims. Instead, the only thing in his inbox is a child asking about a disappeared pet. Well, a disappeared fairy pet, to make it worse. Honestly, is there any lower for a detective, consulting or not, to stoop?   

Thankfully, a client comes to save them from murdering each other (he was seriously considering Cluedo a moment ago!)…now, if only he wasn’t such an idiot. He comes with a fucking DVD. Is he expecting them to just watch it? Why didn’t he mail it, then? A man who believes he’s superfluous…perfect. Probably he’s right, at that.     

Honestly, he hoped for a client, not someone intent on telling them a ghost tale. It’s not even Halloween. Demoniac creatures? Wild genetic experiments? What is this absurdity? The dark and grimy version of little Kirsty and her fairy pet.  Why does no one with a functioning brain come his way?

If not for the evidence of a smoking habit, he would have kicked the man out already. He is honestly distressed, which seems to be the one good thing about him – he’s not come to involve him in some sort of advertising move. Well, not consciously. The consulting detective wouldn’t be surprised to discover that the young, pitiful man has been manoeuvred or brainwashed into it somehow.

John seems to have all his caretaker instincts awakened by the young, upset man. Sherlock instead, has no patience for fools – today less than ever (and no, he’s not jealous about it). Maybe he can use the man to his advantage, though. He won’t be the first nor the last, unless his aspiring client learns to deal with things somehow. And to teach him (see? He’s being helpful) first order is to rip away his shields. Off with the DVD.   

Secondly, deduce the hell out of the man. It won’t let him hide behind whatever lies he’s been fed or convinced himself of. And hopefully earn Sherlock a few more ‘amazing’…who knows, if the detective manages to anger him enough, John might be forced to protect him, though it’s truly improbable.

Oh no – it’s all going topsy-turvy! John looks annoyed by his deductions rather than awed.is that it? Has his brain already lost his appeal? If so, no wonder that his blogger has ignored their bond – that’s about the one selling point Sherlock has. Henry instead is…impressed? That breaks patterns. And for some reason, that doesn’t warm his heart at all. Oh well. He can get one good thing out of the whole debacle.

Second hand smoke. Not as good as having a cigarette himself, but he’s displeasing John enough as it is, but downright breaking their agreement is not a responsibility he doesn’t want. It must be the doctor’s choice. Doesn’t mean he won’t bend the rules.    

No actual facts in the case exposition, though. Just more horror tales. Oh well. The sleuth won’t bother with it. He’s not a ghostbuster, nor a shrink. Not his area. Until…wait. _This_ is weird. And he lives for weird things. For all his nightmare-filled head, Henry Knight isn’t a literary-inclined man. Not one who would add random details just for the effect on his audience. Even his most flowery sentences are rather cliché, not elaborated in order to enchant. So, why hound?    

He suddenly wants this. True. John seemed bored by his deductions before, but these were plain. Solving a twenty year old case with a demonic hound will win him over again, won’t it? (It has to). This doesn’t mean that he can’t manipulate his reluctant soulmate. If conforming doesn’t gain him what he needs, why not start denying his doctor what he wants? A sharp word, a stupid pretence, and his cigarettes are back in his pocket. (He doesn’t smoke at the moment. He’s annoyed John enough – Sherlock doesn’t want to alienate him entirely.         

John has no idea what to do with his consulting detective. Yep, his, he’s settled on it – he lied to himself long enough, but with Irene’s revelations and hints, it’s…well, about 98% probable that Sherlock is his Sherlock. He doesn’t want to be, and the doctor can’t blame him. If they met ten years before, maybe…but by the time they met, John was already the farthest from ‘a catch’ one could be. This doesn’t mean that he can’t claim the man inside his own brain. At least not until the sleuth surpasses deducing and slips right into mind-reading…which wouldn’t surprise the blogger one jot, honestly. Still, he’s probably safe for now.

John is acting in conformity with his resolutions, as always, no matter what life and his reasonably (logically even) unwilling partner throw at him. He’s given up on the long string of girlfriends, that now make him a bit ashamed. Oh, not all of them, he doesn’t suddenly hold himself up to sainthood standards...but the ones since he met the detective.

Part of him always knew. That was the reason for the lies, the covering of his Name with any sort of pretext, and eventually the breakups. He supposes that the fact that he’s been lying to himself all this time, too, could make it better in the eyes of some people (and possibly worse in the opinion of others). 

The fact that he’s accepted his lot in life – and really, it’s not that bad, no matter how much vilified the sleuth is by the most idiotic of his acquaintances…rather, it’s utterly brilliant most of the time – doesn’t mean that he has suddenly learned to deal with every mood swing. True, he’s been warned, and with Sherlock in the process of quitting one type of addiction, mild as it is, the doctor can hardly blame him.

That’s the problem, mostly, he suspects. Give him broken bones, gunshot wounds, assorted violent injuries, he’s in his element, and will set you right even working in the most unfavourable conditions. Addiction? That’s a battle he always, always loses. Mostly because it’s not his to fight, he could say. Which is true, of course, but it still leaves him with a bitter taste in his mouth.         

How is he supposed to help when Sherlock looks like he can’t stand him at times – like he needs to keep himself continuously occupied with a case, every single second of the day, or he’d break apart? It wasn’t like this before. They’d have quiet evenings, ‘educational’ (John’s word, of course) Bond marathons, and the odd day where the most challenging thing was the crossword. But of course, the detective had nicotine then.

The doctor wonders if Irene lied to him, after all (for what purpose? Could she gain anything from it?) and the consulting detective’s soulmate is truly dead. Because if he’s the one, John has to wonder about this whole matching process. Like everyone else, he’s grown idealising the idea of destined lovers, even if – perhaps more so because – he suspected Harry was right and he would never find his own. Soulmates are supposed to be perfect for each other, and each time there’s spousal abuse, or even just divorce, or betrayal, people automatically assume the one they found, no matter how smitten they were at first, is just another homonym.

That’s what John told himself for the longest time, too, despite the…peculiar name of his soulmate. But what if they’re truly random spots? Not dictating your love life any more than your zodiacal sign or any other such rubbish? Sherlock literally saved his life, true. But if they were fated, shouldn’t John be able to help him through such a minor thing as quitting smoking? And instead, here he is, giving up.  And feeling guilty.

But the idea of the sleuth passing on a case he’s been gagging for, simply because he sees his flat(soul?)mate as a jailer, sickens John. If Sherlock doesn’t want to be in the same room as him, preferring (no doubt) getting to Heathrow if necessary to have his nicotine dose, and entertaining himself with escaped, fairy rabbits in the meantime…well, his blogger is many things, but not a warden.

He hasn’t managed to play sobriety enforcer to Harry, who really needs one – he’s not about to do so for Sherlock. Not that his sister would let him if he tried, they were more likely to get into a scuffle at some point…and he refuses to get into a physical fight with her. He would have to consciously restrain himself from using his military training, terrified to hurt her accidentally. And if he didn’t…Harry has always fought dirty. Survival technique. No, best to get out of Harry’s company.

He needs to stop grousing now, though. how has he left his thoughts get so dark while packing for a short stay? Sherlock is on the phone, no doubt making reservations on Mycroft’s credit card, but in a minute or two he’ll bound up yelling at him to hurry. They have a demonic hound to unearth.

The actual trip is long…or maybe it feels that way only to John because he’s bloody uncomfortable with his own thoughts, half expecting the detective to yell at him to stop thinking already. His friend hasn’t even asked when, after a quiet train trip, they found a rented car to wait for them, putting himself at the wheel.

Has he deduced that John has never learned to drive? There was decent public transport before, and after…yep, he’s been laughed at in Afganistan, but *they* never learned to patch people up and save lives, spending literal years of their lives to be able to help. They carted him around. He sewed them back. It was a fair deal, in the captain’s mind. Win-win.

Though maybe the sleuth has no need to deduce. If Mycroft can acquire his therapist’s notes, the older brother can definitely check his lack of driving license…and of course he would inform his little brother of his minion’s flaws. (Yep, minion. Mycroft probably calls him that. or simply, Sherlock is hoping John will heed the ‘do not talk to the driver’ rule. Not wanting to be distracted. Just like he went mute on the train (concentrating? Revising Henry’s statement?). If only Baskerville wasn’t in such a godforsaken place, they would need no car to begin with.

Anyway, John is dutifully quiet, leaving the volatile consulting detective to his own thoughts, and wondering if they’re really going to investigate genetic experiments escaped from a secret military research base ( _how_?). Can that even happen? He has a rather solid scientific preparation, though he’s no geneticist specifically, and he understands the needs of war…but why even make a murderous superdog (mini-wolf?). The dogs they already have work well enough. And if anything, you want keener senses, so they can better detect explosives and/or drugs. Not more aggression, or bigger size. A pet you can’t control stops being a companion and becomes a liability. Are people stupid enough not to see that?   

At least Sherlock does not charge headlong first into Baskerville, as his blogger dreads. He stops the car somewhere in the midst of bloody nothing to scout the place. Imprint it in his mind palace, probably. The contrast with London can’t be more stark, and if the sleuth can navigate them flawlessly and quickly in his city, John doesn’t want to imagine what would happen if they got lost hear. Possibly while chasing (or worse, being chased) by a murderous beast. Especially with a minefield not too far.

He’s the one with the map (a paper one, of course), and the reversal – the detective asking him what are the places they can see, instead of being the one leading and explaining – feels good. Now, if only this could go further and – at least in this case – Sherlock could keep from being reckless, that would be awesome. The doctor doesn’t want to admit it, but the horror movie descriptions by their young client have him on edge. 

Murderers? Par for the course. Serial killers? Even better. But these are men. You can understand their reasoning. You can, in rare occasions, talk them into surrendering (a gun helps with that). A vicious, feral dog can’t be reasoned with, or scared with anything but brute force. And with senses many times sharper than a human’s, you can’t exactly take them by surprise, unlike some dumb criminals. It’s not often that John hopes that a client might be insane, and there might be no case at all, despite how furious that would make Sherlock. Maybe Henry Knight’s dad just slipped, hit his head and the kid freaked out? Anything at all – a faraway howl, a shadow – could have set the boy off, if he was as nervous then as he seems now.    

It’s sad how these thoughts, and many more (the consulting detective can tell him his brain is slow all he wants, but sometimes his blogger’s brain is just fevered) are only distractions. Not from the case, of course. He’s considering the case. No, he’s distracting himself from the figure of Sherlock, who’s thought best to climber on a rock to broaden his horizon…and with his coat, he looks like he would not be out of place in a superhero comic.   

When they’re finally at Grimpen, they are immediately greeted by the commercial, tacky side of having a local monster, and John has to try really hard not to roll his eyes. For their client’s sake, they should at least give the story the benefit of the doubt.

What he really can’t help but glower at is the detective popping his collar to maximise sex appeal. Oh, not to pull, of course. Even if he was, John frankly doubts that in this quaint little place there would someone fitting his undoubtedly exacting standards. To manipulate anyone they might meet, because the human being who can resist him when he’s oh-so-casually ravishing is not born yet. And from his unconvincing defensive remark, Sherlock knows it. It’s not that John has any right to complain about his being seductive, of course. It’s the manipulation he objects to.

In the inn – vegetarian, because they need to eat healthier, if he can manage to make the detective eat anything at all – of course, Sherlock can’t be bothered with the dull necessity of checking in. But that’s okay. It’s unlikely that he will find any clues in the pub, but it wouldn’t do to miss them.

The only question is…why does everyone assume they’re together, and refuses to accept his denial? Isn’t it obvious that they’re not? That they’re too mismatched (whatever fate or God or chance think) to ever fit together? Never mind that they save each other (Sherlock did from the start without even trying, and John has been trying to repay him ever since). There can’t be anything sexual between them. Obviously.  

The blogger does his best to redirect conversation, and thankfully, the manager seems eager to chat about anything. Baskerville and its minefield, Knigh’s demon hound…he’s frank about it being a blessing for his affairs, and careful to warn of the actual dangers. A tourist blown up by a mine would give the place a rather bad rap. While chatting, John tries to observe, too – and he might have just stumbled on a clue. Or anyway a sign things are not as obvious as they appear. What is a vegetarian place doing with a bill for meat?  

The owner is soon joined by the cook, but John does not call him out on his newly discovered incongruence. He’ll let Sherlock know about it first. He can’t help the stab of envy, though. The two men are obviously soulmates, and the easy banter and unashamed affection they share makes John feel his own inadequacy and messed up situation even more. People like these are the ones appearing on cheesy romance movies, and feeding the soulmate ideal. That they can’t see how screwed – sadly not in the literal sense – his relationship with Sherlock is, is half flattering and half frustrating. The doctor can only evade questions again, and run out, looking for his wayward partner.

…And he ends in a ploy to get whatever solid evidence the local ‘tour guide’ has, if anything. Thank God that he’s used to blindly backing Sherlock’s schemes, so he doesn’t miss a beat. He even gracefully loses fifty pounds on it. Not that it matters, with Sherlock lending him his card at need before he even asks most times. No, the money doesn’t matter. The problem is that there _is_ evidence of a gigantic hound. Or someone went out of their way to fabricate a paw print. Which is the most logical option, but…well, John knows very well mad scientists are not necessarily movie characters. After all, he lives with one.       


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do still not own a single thing

With the evidence amassed, they *have* to visit Baskerville. Frankly, Sherlock had hoped he’d find out it was all a stupid hoax, because, well…military base. It’s not that he’s afraid, oh no! The problem is that he’s…fascinated. Way too much. If there’s a thing that is not surprising at all is that his own soulmate (reluctant as the man is) should have an army past.  Fine, let’s call a spade a spade: the consulting detective has a military kink the size of the galaxy. Just the idea of walking in kills about half of his neurons, redirecting blood flow to useless places.

It’s actually lucky that the base is so secret, and they’ll have to use Mycroft’s card to get in. That means that his investigation will necessarily need to be quick. Or he would be caught, and… no, no, his penalty wouldn’t turn into a badly-written porno as his fantasy hopes. Listen to Captain John: they’ll just be shot down. Which means he has to get in and out in a flash, before Mycroft’s alarms will start blaring. Concentrate on the case. No time to dawdle, or stare.

The momentary awe in John’s countenance when Mycroft’s cards actually works wakes a jumble of emotions that he needs to ruthlessly quash down and file for later. On the one hand, he’s missed his blogger’s wonderment lately, not even realising how badly. On the other, said wonderment is now directed at Mycroft…what if John’s loyalty shifts? His brother can’t have John. He can’t. (Not that he can trust the mere “he’s my soulmate”, not when it clearly means nothing to his blogger.)

At least he gets to play. Yes, of course, he cannot linger – but he needs to act. Unless he plays his part well, of someone who’s used to such work, who fits in the military milieu, not even his brother ID will be worth a dime. Which means that, instead of flirting, or daring the young soldier to put him in his place, he gets to boss him around. Which is ‘pleasant’, in his own right. The fact that it’s a bright-eyed corporal instead of an officer (and that he has his own officer stalking along) helps immensely.  

It also helps that he knows first-hand his brother’s obnoxious attitude, and has long practice imitating him in the art of subtle intimidation. Mycroft is a master of the understated but very much heard, “You better not have done anything I don’t like, because I’ll be very sorry if I have to fix it, and believe me, I’ll make you sorry too.” 

The sleuth must come across as too politician and too little military, though. Bless John, because when the young soldier at the gate still thinks it’s a good idea to talk, despite his ID being confirmed, the Captain takes over. Army lingo, army sternness… a proper introduction, including salute. Sherlock tries not to pass out by the sudden redirection of three fourths of his blood flow southward. And people wonder why he wears the Belstaff. Of course, at the start it was a matter of looking sharp, as far from his Shezza persona as possible. But even if he had a different coat, he would have had to buy one like this after meeting his soulmate.

And if that’s not enough, John says the exact words, “That’s an order, corporal.” Can he be completely sure that he hasn’t accidentally slipped into his mind palace? Because these are the words of a thousand fantasies…He manages not to get to his knees out of pure reflex, but he can’t keep his lips from stretching into a smile that says, “God yes” as loud as words ever did.  

As soon as the young soldier is a few paces away, possibly out of respect, the detective can’t stay quiet. Especially because the situation is so very confusing – for all his ‘not gay’ declarations, he could swear that since they’ve passed Baskerville’s gates, going back to a military setting, John’s eyes have strayed to more than one soldier. Not in the “having to pretend we’re here to inspect so I’ll throw a quick look to neatness of uniform” way, but in “not-so-subtly staring at that nice ass” way.

Not that the consulting detective can blame him – God knows he would happily do the same. But this means that he’s not being refused as soulmate simply because he’s a man (that would be the merciful option, he supposes), but because it’s him. No, no, concentrate. He needs to investigate, and he doesn’t have much time. Not considering his (lack of) relationship, or worrying if the corporal went farther to show himself off to the obviously Very Important Captain.

Distracted by everything that’s happening, Sherlock does praise his partner (in crime, at the moment) for the style he’s just demonstrated. Their case might have been impossible to solve without an actual veteran at his side.

John, unsurprisingly, downplays himself, or attempts to, mentioning how long it is since he had to pull rank. As if he could have forgotten how to, which is ludicrous. Captain Watson is a soldier to his marrow, and probably was even before he actually enrolled, the sleuth suspects. The (causing spontaneous pants dropping) authority comes to him as natural as breathing – and much less boring. There’s a smile on the not so former soldier’s lips, though, that says he’s not entirely unaware of his nature, nor of the effect he has on people.

Too tempted by it, the detective asks his blogger if he’s enjoyed it. John likes their cases, that’s a staple of their life. But he’s usually so soft-spoken, versus Sherlock’s arrogance, that one might be blinded to his steel core, and suspect that he will only order people about when forced to do so. That person would be an idiot, of course. Sherlock knows that, but confirmation will ensure there’s no possible misunderstanding.  

John doesn’t lie, knowing better than do so with him, and confesses his pleasure with fervour, though speaking too low for anyone else to hear him. Now, the sleuth’s quandary – just after this oh-so-unengaging case will be over – must be ‘how to make his soulmate figure out that a sterner approach would be very welcome in certain circumstances’.  

The consulting detective is suddenly deeply ashamed of himself. The very fact that his brain is so overtaken by dirty thoughts that a possibly rabid monkey can lunge at him and catch him unaware means that he needs to stop being an idiot, focus and solve this case now. He’d definitely sport a large bite if not for the common sense of the military scientists to keep their wild (wildest, possibly) animals into steel cages. 

 Sherlock startles, but at least he finally starts actually investigating. Not just walking and ogling. He tries the most stupid technique ever, openly asking about any exemplars fleeing. He counts on the military training to obey higher authority to counteract the human instinct to cover one’s flaws. It doesn’t work, of course. Possibly because, if an augmented dog or some other experiment managed to escape, random grunt-level soldiers have been kept in the dark themselves. It makes sense. But it was still worth a try.   

Is it possible that someone – a scientist looking for more ‘on the ground’ tests than allowed, or an officer with a twisted sense of what a nice pet looks like – has actively removed one of their subjects and freed it in the moor to fend for itself. Or maybe it is only let out to patrol sometimes, as an extra layer of protection in case someone isn’t afraid enough of the minefield. If so, the guilty party is probably on the paranoid side. But inside such a place, this could not be as much of a narrowing parameter as it would usually be.    

And talking of researchers, here comes the first one. Immediately investigating on their identity, but that’s to be expected. At Baskerville, there can’t be many new faces. And they aren’t exactly dressed as newly hired analysts needing a tour of the facilities. If the man wasn’t curious, he would never have become a scientist in the first place. It’s all expected.

Sherlock hates the man on sight all the same. It’s not for any sort of evidence of crimes on his part, unless having an awful character has finally been turned into a crime. The sleuth suggested it to his brother many times, but Mycroft always only raised an eyebrow and pointed out how his siblings was pleading to make his own incarceration mandatory.

Still, the detective maintains that being curt and rude is not so much of a flaw of character as the false camaraderie of doctor Frankland. He’s saving everyone’s time each time he dismisses them with a snappish ‘dull’ after barely a sentence. Surely that’s more courteous than listening to a long tale of woe and _then_ offering a false excuse for why he’s unable to take their case at the moment? Still, that seems to be the ‘right’ option according to John.

Frankland instead is the exact opposite. He quips as if they’re friends from birth, but his eyes turn cold and assessing a moment later. And even his jokes…the underlying message is ‘get out’. For all his apparent amiability, he’s implicitly threatening them, not caring what their role is. Used to his brother as he is, the scientist’s undertone is not lost on the consulting detective…  
  
Apparently John, instead, remains blissfully unaware, offering to the other doctor nothing more than a momentary smile. The former captain keeps interrogating the soldier guiding them, in an effort to amass data for his companion.

But it’s obvious that the corporal knows nothing more than the vaguest of notions... Mostly, they can be summed up as, “There’s always a war somewhere, and to win those, our researchers are allowed to come up with any wild experiment they like, why would I need the specifics?” That’s not even wrong. Soldiers don’t need to study the creation of new weapons. They just need to be able to use them.      

Useless as their conversation is, Sherlock is not about to butt in, not even when his blogger gets himself in a very awkward position by looking too unaware of what he’s supervising…but his obvious military background helps him there. Their guide accepts that captain Watson is to Mr. Holmes what he himself is to the dozens of scientists in here, and doesn’t pursue his uncertainty too long. Besides, Mycroft’s ID is legit.    

The next scientist they interrupt is a woman and, at least, she’s refreshingly rude. Being interrupted mid-experiment? Snarling is what they deserve, and the consulting detective gets it. Both a very embarrassed corporal and a slightly miffed John try to suggest more politeness, but the sleuth is far from bothered by that. Honesty is what he wants. She might hold onto her secrets, understandably, but the things she will say won’t be careful misdirection, or flat-out lies.

Sherlock barely keeps from laughing aloud. Despite Mycroft’s teaching, it appears that sometimes coincidences do happen, and they’re ridiculous. That poor, concerned little Kirsten’s mum should work at Baskerville is not something he expected. But solving a case he hasn’t even accepted feels oddly pleasant, and mentioning Bluebell is sure to wrongfoot doctor Stapleton.

Besides, it proves that errors happen in the research base. A fairy rabbit, with glow in the dark genes, got swapped for a child’s pet. What if someone made an error with pups, too, and a murder machine modified hound was gifted to another researcher’s child? And then – somehow – they didn’t put it down once it killed Henry’s dad, or couldn’t find all its pups and more killer genes inheriting dogs are happily being walked in the moor? It all depends on how they’ve been brought up, and nobody could even notice…

The sleuth would love to stay and chat more, investigate deeper. But they don’t have much time. Eventually, Mycroft will catch up to its ID’s misuse…and they need to be out of here by then. If only because John won’t forgive him if he loses other soldiers’ respect, he suspects.

His blogger, in the meantime, is utterly baffled. They intruded in a super-secret military base for  Henry’s murderous hell beast, haven’t they? When have they switched to the mysterious case of the fairy rabbit? Why would the detective even mention it when he was so outraged at being consulted about lost pets in the first place?

Not that John doesn’t empathize…it’s pretty much what he had to go through, switching from on the field surgery to general medicine, and he knows better than anyone that adapting to not being as useful takes time and mental effort. So why are they back to investigating Bluebell? Whose leg is Sherlock trying to pull? All theirs, most probably… but being given a subtle nod or something, to reassure him that his flatmate has not lost his mind entirely, would be nice. 

Before he can regain his bearings, the consulting detective turns on his heels and announces sharply that they’ll be leaving. It takes everyone by surprise, of course. The researcher who’s seen her family life questioned by a surprise inspector. The poor corporal, that expected them to have a Very Important Conversation (definitely deserving of all caps) with the commander of the base, and a lengthy and in-depth examination of every single ongoing experiment. A surprise inspection lasting barely a quarter of an hour? What can anyone figure out in that time?

John would love to tell him that Sherlock can deduce in a minute all the knowledge that would take a normal man – even a highly trained person – at least an hour and half to acquire. But now it’s not the time to linger, if the detective’s sudden haste has the reason the blogger suspects. They knew it was a get in – get out job from the start. If they’re about to be outed as impostors, he’ll hurry along without a word.

This is what makes the consulting detective’s behaviour – his insistence on the poor unfortunate rabbit – such an utterly baffling fact. With a limited time, they should have focused on the matter at hand. But John can’t even imagine scolding his companion during an investigation.

In such a situation, the sleuth immediately becomes – very naturally, at that – his superior officer. Though thankfully his officers knew better than to throw themselves into battle without waiting for backup, or John would have developed a permanent headache a week into deployment. If it wasn’t for the much hated spells of boredom – when, in all fairness, a completely different kind of obnoxiousness takes over the flat – John would have probably snapped a long time ago, obsessed with keeping his madman safe.      

What are they going to do now? Go back to Henry and ask him if he’s sure his dad was killed by a monstrous hound and not a fairy bunny? That will be an embarrassing conversation. Or is Sherlock thinking he can use the same trick again? For the safety of England, the doctor prays that –  hopefully as soon as they get out – an alarm about the misuse of Mycroft’s ID will be spread…certainly not annulled because whoever used it is already off the premises anyway. Actually, they will probably have a visit at the inn very soon, but hopefully a call to the real Holmes sibling in question will somehow smooth things before they’re thrown in jail without letting them explain. 

There’s no time to be distracted, though. They come across that funny doctor again…what was it? Frankland? Shouldn’t he be busy, oh…anywhere else? The man looks as if he’s been waiting for them. If the scientist is on his coffee break, or something, he should certainly have something more enjoyable to do than stand around and ambush them again. Unless he has reasons to investigate what a supervisors’ commission gets up to? Concerned, maybe? It does seem that all kind of things are happening in here…

Before John can even follow this line of thought fully, they’re interrupted…exactly at the wrong moment. By a very stern and unhappy officer. The former captain doesn’t even wait for the introductions to be over. Only the base’s commander would have the gall to look as thunderous in front of someone sent to report on them.

Thank God that he’s used to this kind of people. They can either submit to his power, and start trying to justify themselves to him…but that would take lots of grovelling and time they don’t have. Or they can do what he does. A firm shake of hand – the man will despise them if they’re any less than very energetic.

Then, a cursory acknowledgment of his authority – but as if they’re peers. Being this dismissive with a major would get John reprimanded in the army, but if he’s supposed to be here as overseer – tasked with reporting his judgment to a higher authority – he would automatically overrule Barrymore, no matter his grade, and  treating him as a peer would actually be a courtesy.

A quick assurance from both him and Sherlock that their statement will be all praise, and they should be good to go. The major’s worries should be eased, and Barrymore would certainly understand being busy, and not wanting to lose time in empty pleasantries.  At least if he’s like so many officers John has met.

The man is more outraged than he expected, though, insisting that Baskerville was founded to get rid of bureaucracy in the first place. This is an officer that doesn’t take well at having anyone above him, especially not any civilians. What the fuck is up with this base? Everyone is insane in here.

    
Sherlock is all false sympathy and honest “you’ve been unsupervised way too long already.” Which might actually be the thing that stalls them that fateful extra second. Alarms blare. Lights flash. The young corporal he bullied into being their guide is the one who got the ‘fake ID’ news, and feels the need to yell it way too loudly.

They’re busted. John always knew they would be busted, but still followed Sherlock in this madness. Which means that he’s the madman, not the consulting detective thinking they can bypass all controls. There goes his army pension. Not that he’ll need it in jail. Hoping it’ll be jail and not a summary shooting. He knows that if there is any kind of hereafter, he would never forgive himself for allowing the brilliant, reckless detective to die. Even if that death would be Sherlock’s own fault, and God knows there’s no persuading him when he’s fixated on an idea.

So the captain (captain today, again) does the only thing he can think of. Keep up the charade. Deny the evidence. If he can scare the major until they’ve managed to get out of here, it won’t matter that their unauthorised presence has been detected.

What is their evidence, after all? It’s not like Mycroft popped up to berate his little brother. That would require legwork, anyway. No, it must be some sort of automated response…and tech malfunctions. Computers are hacked. Heck, even the weather sometimes can mess up circuits. At least he thinks – he might have read – he’s not Sherlock, all right?

So, claiming a malfunction of the base’s computers, and threatening to write up the major...well, that’s his best bet. They could be spies – but they’ve been around less than half an hour, and it’s not like they know details about any specific experiment. Or they could be big wigs, pissed off at the stupid computer virus putting a dent in their schedule and at the major that apparently doesn’t have, amidst all his scientists, enough IT guys to keep the thing running properly.

    
It’s a bet (John always had something of the gambler in him) but one he still thinks they could win… human nature is in their favour. If Mycroft’s ID was different, they’d immediately be escorted out with the deepest excuses, probably…8:2. But of course the damn ID has to have a photo, and of course it’s one that’s not replaceable.

Now, identity document photos are famously horrible, barely looking like human beings, much less the intended target. And with Sherlock and Mycroft being brothers, it can fool someone at a glance, sure. But under the suspicious stare of someone already suspecting foul play? That’s way harder.  

Help comes as suddenly as the chaos, and from the last source John would expect. As much of a buffoon doctor Frankland likes to play, he didn’t seem like a man who would contribute to get people snooping in here out of trouble. But that’s exactly what he does, guaranteeing Sherlock’s identity with the major.

His friendliness looks genuine, and the blogger thinks that the stage has lost a fine actor when this man devoted himself to science. He’s used to Sherlock being a wonderful impromptu actor, but he wouldn’t have judged Frankland someone capable of shamming his way without an hesitation. It is actually worrying about what his studies entail. This man could fake half his data, and bring his doctored report to a commission with a smile. No hint of nervousness. Not a side glance.

Watching the sleuth and the scientist renew their inexistent acquaintance is not any different from what John has seen at the buffets of a dozen medical conferences he’s been to. What he’s done there himself, meeting again colleagues that are working in a different country and he’s not in regular contact with.  He’s mildly tempted to clap at their performance, though obviously not insane enough to give into it.

The major concedes, of course he does, because how can he doubt? He warns sternly his scientist that he’ll be responsible in case of a mistake, but is actually all too relieved that his security has not really been breached. This episode might appear on a report about the base, but if Holmes and Frankland are as chummy with each other as it looks, hopefully the researcher can persuade them to just forget it. Which is why, when the researcher offers to substitute the poor corporal as their guide until they’re out, nobody objects. If he had any feelings to spare about anyone else, John would pity corporal Lyons for the major’s inevitable reaction to his ‘error’. But he’s too busy being shocked, relieved and still a bit anxious (they’re not safe until they’ll be outside) to worry about the young man. 

Today is the day of unexpected events. If he had to guess (he doesn’t deduce) a reason for Frankland’s last minute saving, he would be floundering with theories…but certainly not imagine that the researcher is a fan of theirs. One that claims to be more interested in Sherlock’s website than John’s blog, for once.

It makes sense, of course – this is a meeting of two mad scientists, and the results could be terrifying. Still, the doctor is utterly tempted to interrogate the man. Unless he names at least 75 different types of tobacco ash off the top of his head, he can’t claim to be a true fan of the science of deduction website, certainly?

If he’s trying to be a flatterer, though, he’s missing the mark by a mile and half. The scientist keeps mentioning the hat, as if it should be something that Sherlock picked as trademark, or should be proud of. There’s little Sherlock has been more annoyed by than the media making a fuss about him. It is actually a relief for the blogger. If these two hit it off too well, the world might very well burn.

After so many surprises, what’s one more? Frankland reveals himself as a family friend of their client. Henry had such an ‘in’ for Baskerville, and he’s failed to mention it? The consulting detective is right – everyone is an idiot. Why would Henry hid someone this anxious to help?

Oh well. Maybe it’s just because of his compulsive need to make quips – and cliché ones, at that. When someone is seriously concerned, having a jokester around can be simply unbearable. Frankland apparently thinks the most stale, ridiculous threat ever, in case of his secrets being disclosed,  is amusing. John is quietly hopeful that the sleuth’s sharp “That’d be extremely ambitious of you,” in reply is partly because he knows his personal soldier would destroy anyone who would try to harm him. Sherlock knows, doesn’t he?


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own a thing. Obviously.

John follows, automatically taking the rearguard. Not that it should be necessary – the brilliant playacting of minutes ago should ensure that they’ll get out of here safe. But he can’t help the urge of having his (what? They defy explanation)…his Sherlock’s back. At least not until they’ll be safely out of base. Back to the village, if not London.

The sleuth keeps investigating to the last second, trying to get Frankland to open up about his colleagues. The man is a jokester, why shouldn’t he have a quip about everyone? But finally the researcher behaves like someone employed in a secret base, and refuses to say anything at all – though implying he doesn’t like the scientist they’ve met. The one who is, apparently, involved in the mysterious case of the fairy bunny, rather than the one of the hell hound. It wouldn’t surprise John entirely if he’d discover that the NATO is really upset about Bluebell. Well, it would surprise him, but things would start making sense.      

What do you make with a luminescent bunny anyway? Beyond having the cutest table lamp in the world, he supposes, if you persuade him to stay still. People are using public funds…basically to prove that the splicing can be done? If the little Kirsty contacted them recently, her mum shouldn’t have had time to engineer a murder hound yet, should she?  Is this their prof that Henry is insane, after all? Or why is the detective insisting about Stapleton?

When their escort has finally left them alone, at the car, John asks. The more he knows, the more he’ll be able to act accordingly. After all, not everyone is born with BAFTA-winning talents that need absolutely no honing. He doesn’t even want to offer his input. He just wants to be able to comply better with whatever his partner’s plan is. And hopefully not cause them all to be jailed with an accidental mistake, in case Sherlock – now with the cover of Frankland’s avowal – decides to plunge back into Baskerville’s depths.

Of course he receives no answer. Far it be from the world’s only consulting detective to explain himself to any ordinary human, much less his not-good-enough soulmate. Well, unless Irene lied, but… the hypothesis does make a scary amount of sense. All John’s worth is a smug smirk and a – purposeful, he’d bet his whole pension on it – popping of the collar. Does the sleuth really think it would work to distract him from the answers he seeks by flaunting what he could have, if only he weren’t…stupid? Damaged goods? All of the above?

The blogger snaps, accidentally praising the detective’s beauty in a way that will leave any eavesdroppers persuaded that all his not-gay declarations are utter balderdash… but there’s no need to hide that from Sherlock, is there? Not when his…soulmate is using the bloody gorgeousness he’s blessed with on purpose. (He denies it, of course. He plays clueless beauty to a t. But he’s just proven what a perfect liar he is, so it’s not like John is forced to believe him.) 

Which is why he insists on it later, in the car. If Sherlock was afraid of someone accidentally eavesdropping on them, here should be safe. Unless he suspects that someone bugged their car while it was parked? But with their cover holding for most of the time, they wouldn’t dare to counter-bug their supervisors’ car, would they? Not if they don’t have such dark secrets that they should be afraid of something much worse than being overheard. More of a ‘misplaced’ mine to keep their practice safe.

But the Major sounded arrogant and annoyed, not afraid or threatened… unless Barrymore is in the dark, too… Christ, John needs to stop working himself into a nervous breakdown before they even reach Grimpen. Whether they’ve created a hell hound or not (and common sense would say no), their client being terrified is enough. This is the UK military, not doctor Mengele’s camp.     

The detective does reply, so at least he doesn’t share John’s concerns…he just confirms his private ponderings about Stapleton’s possible endeavours. Now, how are they supposed to discover how far her research has gone…and how long ago? They shouldn’t forget the timeline. This is not just a ‘murder dogs have been created’. Their theory – well, Henry’s theory – is ‘murder dogs have been created and unleashed upon the defenceless public decades ago’. If they were ready so long ago, John should have seen some in Afghanistan, shouldn’t he? Unless they really proved themselves untrainable…in which case more stupid tourists would have fallen prey to the wild beasts in the moor, after the death of Henry’s dad.   

About Henry, they’ll have to go see him and admit that they’ve not made much progress still. Though Sherlock’s outlandish excuse about the NATO might be useful now, since they’ve accidentally stumbled on Bluebell…well, his “mum”.

Once they get at the address their client has given them, John breathes in and thanks God that Sherlock is as posh as they come. He would never have guessed that the trembling wreck Henry was could buy their flat and possibly the street, too. In his experience, money brought self-confidence, even arrogance. The consulting detective certainly confirms that pattern. John is still wondering why someone with his wardrobe looked for a flatmate at all…but honestly, probably Mycroft is behind it all.     

The doctor has learned not to let himself be cowed by anyone, but he can’t help being ill at ease. Oh well. He’ll just let the sleuth do the talking. _Sherlock_ certainly doesn’t get the urge to wonder if he’s even allowed past the main door.

The fact that Henry still looks up to them, as if they’re his saviours, and behaves as if his money is something that just didn’t enter his brain…not even an afterthought, just a fact of life, like the sky being blue, is helpful too to settle John’s nerves. The blogger really hopes they will manage to help, not because they will probably receive a huge recompense, but because there’s still something youthful in Henry – despite him being not that younger than them – that makes him want to fix him, like he would a lost kid.    

Sherlock, apparently, does not share his urge to care for the young man. Possibly because he can be plenty childish himself? The sleuth has definitely never seemed a parental figure. If anything, he seems to delight in shocking poor Henry further. Seriously, the poor man scrounged another shadow of a clue out of his nightmares, and the consulting detective needs to offer the darkest interpretation of them all? True, they’re possibly discussing a murder, but…well, if Sherlock worked in a hospital, John would rip him a new one about his bedside manner.

He should be used to this, of course. It’s not the first time that Sherlock shocks clients. Heck, it’s probably the very reason the sleuth allows him to tag along at all – that and his gun, of course. Still, his attitude is particularly irksome. Because he’s recently discovered that his flat/soul…mate is as dismissive of him as of boring clients? If he was honest with himself, very probably.

Still, he does not question the detective’s interpretation, like he wouldn’t want anyone doubting a diagnosis of his. Instead, in an attempt to reassure their client – the man looks like he needs it – he declares, “Sherlock has a plan.” As if it were fact. He really believes it _is_ fact. If anything is given, it’s that the detective’s brain never rests, especially on a case. That surely would hatch some idea of what moves are needed to solve this mystery, wouldn’t it? 

It turns out that the world’s only consulting detective does indeed have a plan. One that makes John want to scream. He should have expected it, really. The sleuth has never been anything but insanely reckless, ignoring basic safety precautions. Some people would say that is what John is for…to make sure his mad ideas do not result in the detective’s premature burial.

Offering human bait to a possible murderous wild beast (though John can’t help but hope that it there is an alternative explanation) is not a plan for anyone but Sherlock. Offering already traumatised bait should be so obviously wrong – Henry looks about ready to pass out – that no one in their right mind would suggest it. If John had mentioned such a plan to his superiors to flush out the enemy – despite all his brothers in arms being as sane as soldiers went – he would have got the dressing down of his life, and rightly so!

Sometimes, he can’t help but wish that Sherlock had, at any point in his life, received some sort of structure by an authority or another. It would have taught him a bit of self-preservation…and hopefully other people’s, too. His spiteful soulmate’s brain – as much as it is a blessing for so many – made him able to run circles around anyone who should have been tasked with his education.

Which leaves his blogger trying to reason with the consulting detective. As if that’s a thing that can ever happen. John doesn’t yell, and he gives himself points for that. He tries to be firm and put boundaries…He has experiences with training – his men, and he’s practically been the one to housebreak the pup that Mike Stamford has smuggled into their dormitory at uni – and he knows that raging does not work.

Unsurprisingly, he fails in the end. There’s a huge problem with making Sherlock see sense. He cannot undermine him in front of their client. And the detective can talk circles around anyone, making the most rash plans seem perfectly reasonable. Tragically, while John maintains that this is not a good idea, not at all, he can’t deny that it is the most expedient one. Not that one would say that there’s a rush to solve a twenty years old murder, but if that will help Henry’s sanity…

The sleuth brings up the shrink’s suggestion to revisit the crime scene, too. John wants to snap that no mental health professional would endorse inviting an attack, and they’re still not certain that nothing is roaming the moors, but he can’t. Because of course the detective reads it off him before he can open his mouth, and adds, “You’ll be with us, won’t you? You have a gun, and the best aim I’ve ever seen. We’ll be perfectly safe.”       

John can only nod at that. Damn it. They’re going to play sitting…no, moving ducks. Let’s hope for the best. And of course, to make mattes more frustrating, their outing is planned for twilight – and with the season it is, dark will fall quickly. Wandering in the dark with an hyper-excitable, traumatised young man and a consulting detective that has no idea at all about the more elementary safety precautions. With the chance of a genetically modified dog created for the army sniffing them out – though hopefully that is all Henry’s fevered imagination.

Even if nothing of the sort is real, this is not the sort of leisurely stroll John would normally look forward to…but the other option is to leave two not entirely normal men out there. That is a recipe for disaster if the doctor knows one. He silently scolds himself for thinking two not entirely sane menat first. Sherlock might be…peculiar, certainly, but not batshit crazy. Though honestly, if the sleuth was less suspicious towards the whole medical category, John would be very tempted to have him assessed. But he can’t blame him for not wanting anyone messing around with that brilliant brain of his.

Which is how they end up walking around the moor –in the dark – with John faithfully following the other two, illegal gun in his pocket, for every eventuality. Hyper-aware himself, army training demanding him to check his surroundings obsessively…while the detective seems more interested in getting as deep into the place as it’s possible in the least possible time, these long legs of his carrying him on the uneven terrain. Their flashlights seem to make things worse, awakening shadows that seem to want to pounce on them. But it’s nothing. He knows the difference between a rock or a branch’s shadow and a monster’s. He’s not a kid anymore.

Sudden light, though…that stops him. Who is there? Other monster hunters?...Or someone from the base who decided to conduct experiments outside of it? If so, it could solve their case…and it’s also not something you want to accidentally stumble upon. Definitely not.

So John observes the inconstant flashes, trying to figure out what it means. Heck, they could also be a form of communication. Not that now – with mobile phones and all – it would be necessary, but maybe someone is nostalgic. Or they’re afraid of the electronic communication being intercepted, and think that nobody will notice a random light that could be brought by tourists instead. If it is Morse, though, it’s not any acronym he recognises. He turns to ask the detective if he can figure anything out, or maybe Mycroft shared some code…and that’s when he notices that he’s the only one who stopped. His companions are God knows where. Fuck. He’s not much of a bodyguard, is he?

For his part, Sherlock is really wishing that the killer dog would end up not being a mere hallucination. Yep, it would make for a rather mad night, being chased by the bloodthirsty mutt. But it would also a)finish the case (he has full confidence in John’s perfect aim…the former captain has proven it too many times to count from their first day on); b)interrupt the awkward conversation that is going on.

He’s trying to gather more clues, should he ever need to go back to the Baskerville base…which, for his sanity and the manageability of his libido, he really hopes will not be necessary. But apparently his client has mistaken a questioning for a light-hearted conversation…possibly even to take his mind off the anxiety evoked by the ghastly scenery. As if his goal was not to solve a murder, but to cheer the boy up. Henry is definitely too used to people catering to his wellbeing. It reminds the sleuth of some of the more obnoxious of Mycroft’s…acquaintances, because friends would be definitely too strong a word, and that does not help his disposition towards his client.     

Henry’s blindness to his own life events – especially when he’s obsessing over his past so much – is also beyond frustrating. Sherlock would be tempted to cut him down with a few choice words, but the last thing he needs is the young man having a mental breakdown and scaring away all wildlife all the way to London, which he seems perfectly capable to do.  

Not questioning a friendship between a conspiracy nut and a researcher of the base the other denounced as the root of all evil? Especially when one of the two was killed? True, Henry maintains that it was an escaped experiment…but he should at least have considered the option that it was not. That – if it was some sort of dog being enhanced for the army – and, frankly, even more so if the hellhound was a fake memory, a child’s attempt to make sense of events too big for him, it happened on purpose.

What united the two men, despite their position on opposing fronts? Did they really never ‘talk shop’? Frankland seems all too happy to joke around – had he accidentally revealed something he shouldn’t have? And how can anyone with a brain not ponder these questions?    

Instead of being ashamed of accepting the most suspicious things as given facts of life, Henry dares to turn the tables on him. Likening his dad and Frankland’s far-fetched relationship to the one the detective has with his blogger.  As if he knew anything at all about them. He’s seen them for…what? Half an hour in all? And yet, the man feels entitled to judge them.

Is it so obvious that they are mismatched? That John should be anywhere far, far from him? Sherlock gives himself points for not screaming at his client that he really, really doubts that his dad and Frankland were actually soulmates but decided to ignore it because of an obvious incompatibility that should not have existed.

After all, this is their own private issue, which they are…well, not working on, how do you do with him being a freak, but dealing their own way. Ignoring the fact is totally a way of dealing with it. The sleuth hightly doubts that John would be happy with him exposing their actual relationship to all and sundry.

The only points his client’s gets are for not calling the consulting detective a freak out loud, even if he’s undoubtedly thought so. Not that his voice trailing off in embarrassed silence is much better. Though, it’s no surprise that the man is completely dumb to everything going on around him, if he deems John ‘straightforward’. His blogger has so many layers carefully wrapped under his jumpers that Sherlock doesn’t think he will ever be able to figure him out completely.

When so much stupid is in the air, you can’t blame the detective to wish for anything to interrupt them, hungry, lethal genetic experiments included. He’s this close to giving it all up as a bad job. Being bored out of his skull would be better than having perfect strangers smile and judge his relationship with John. As if the smile made the implied, “You shouldn’t be together in a sensible world,” any better. The sudden turn of the conversation is making Sherlock taste bile and – what’s worse – distracting him from the case. He’s supposed to be finding clues. Instead, he’s obsessing – once again – about John. The hellhound might well sneak on him now, so distracted he is.      

…Well, the good thing is that the hound is not feeling sneaky today. Not at all. But Henry suddenly gasps, and it sounds like he would be whimpering if only he had enough breath left in his lungs. As for Sherlock…he’s starkly reminded of when he was ten, yelling at his brother, “I hate you! I wish that you’d just be hit by a truck and die, or something.” It was about Mycroft curbing his experiments entailing flames…which were, frankly, most of them. Instead of getting angry, yelling back, or even threatening punishment, he got out and came back with a copy of the Labyrinth, which Sherlock was required to sit through. The lesson was supposed to be ‘careful what you wish for’. What the young boy got from it was that girls were stupid and David Bowie looked kind of awesome. To this day, he hasn’t entirely changed opinion about either issue, though of course he has adjusted it.

But careful what you wish for would definitely be a good tagline for this whole case. Even the best moments are ruined by his own bitterness, and now…now there’s this thing in front of him. Only it’s not there. It can’t be there. No matter how much Baskerville’s scientists play around, mixing genes from this and that, there’s simply no way they have managed to create that. Yep, sure, the body could easily be obtained. It looks like a Plott Hound on steroids. Possibly mixed with a Great Dane…and a horse. And God knows what. It’s the head that makes the sleuth’s wide open eyes narrow in distrust. Not because of the yellow, predator eyes, or the bloody saliva dripping from its maw. Not even because it’s obviously wolfish.

No, because it’s a badly reproduced attempt at a wolf mask…he’s already seen that. Complete of hairy mane and enraged furrows. Not at the zoo, or on a BBC documentary. The last October, John had decided that he would subject his flatmate to another of his ‘educational’ movie nights. True, Halloween wasn’t a big celebration in London. But the former soldier was clearly missing his army friends. “The Americans got us into it, obviously. You see, a clearly fake supernatural scary tale can be a nice distraction from the actual dangers you cannot delve on,” he admitted. So, of course, if John was in the mood for ‘Dog Soldiers’ (soldiers, and werevolves, and a plot that actually sounded like something the late Mr. Knight would have concocted), Sherlock had agreed with a shrug.

So no, there’s no way that the thing he’s seeing is an actual experiment, failed or not. It’s simply too similar. If the stupid movie was actually a documentary, it would never be allowed to get out. God knows he’s had his share of bad trips, and weird trips, and silly trips. This would be par for the course – especially with Henry at his side shaking like a leaf and the ideas the young man planted in his brain since that morning at Baker Street.

But he’s not taken any drugs. At least not that he is aware of. But he must have, doesn’t he? He tries to blink the vision away, but it doesn’t work. Which might mean it’s true. No, no, it makes no sense. It just means he’s taken more drugs than he even suspected and – mind palace or not – he can’t take the helm of this hallucination. After a few really horrific trips, he’d discovered lucid dreaming, and usually…well, he might not be able to control things entirely, but he could steer them to a point.

The growling, drooling, furious monster does not lunge at them – but he also refuses to change at all. His brain can’t create a pink collar for it. Why can’t he? And where the fuck is John? John would shoot him down – it was the whole point of this outing – if the thing is real. Which no, no, it can’t be. The sleuth shakes his head vehemently, but the thing is still there. And still, despite all his attempts to comfort himself or reason it down, fucking terrifying. There. He admits it. He generally likes dogs, but not when they look like they just jumped out of the depths of hell itself. 

He wants to whimper himself. He wants to call for help. No, don’t be stupid, if Henry realises he’s just as shaken as his companion, he’ll lose every credit. He’s supposed to be the one with a brain – and capable to use it. Why is he suddenly useless. Again, where is John? He can’t gallop away like he’d like to, he’ll ever look ridiculous or make the beast’s hunting drive kick in, but his flight-or-fight (and let’s be honest, there’s no way to fight that thing) instincts are in  overdrive. He needs to get away – slowly. He needs John to deal with this. Help. (He can’t voice it. This is not true. Again, repeat it to yourself – this is not true. Someone dosed you with a really awful batch. Who?)

They do find John, backtracking their steps. The sheer fact that he’s abandoned them is…yesterday, Sherlock would have called it out of character (if nothing else, the man is loyal) but now he’s wondering if it wasn’t done on purpose. Throwing his defective soulmate to the wolves. No one would probably blame him, either. No, no…his brain is running itself in circles, nor at his best. He cannot trust his deductions at the moment. Which just about kills him.

Seeing his companion flitter about their obviously distressed client – doctor’s instincts, he supposes –  while ignoring him just because he isn’t screaming his head off, and instead lying through his teeth (quite patently, he thinks)...if only to himself, the sleuth will admit it hurts. Instead of running up to his room and slamming the door (honestly, he’s not even sure his blogger would notice a sulk at this point), Sherlock curls up in an armchair next to fire. It’s the closest thing to their flat he can have in this godforsaken place.

Eventually, John comes back, still worrying about Henry bloody Knight and ignoring his distress. Sherlock can barely contain himself through his silly speech, or listen to the clues he asserts he’s found. With the man being at their rear, his words are implying that the sleuth missed hints that were staring him in the face. He might be high, but his brain has not entirely given up working. He’s not blind. He sees, and he can – still – observe.       

That’s when the detective breaks. If his companion will ignore everything unless vocally pointed out to him, he will make him happy. Admit to vulnerability. It might kill him, but if it makes John finally pretend to care, at least, he’s going to…not ask, no. Never that. Just point out that he’s seen the hell hound, and that experience was a tiny bit upsetting.

What he was hoping for, he has no idea. Maybe a touch? Maybe a reassurance that John hadn’t meant to leave him to be dog food? Instead, what he sees is the other man physically recoiling from him. He should have expected it, really. Sherlock is this close to being sick, and not because of a bad reaction to whatever drug he’s been dosed with.

Here his blogger is – the very same famous for his lurid exaggerations, turning their cases into even more adventurous stories than they are – appealing to rationality. Suggesting he calm down. He’s not a nineteenth century maiden diagnosed with hysteria (not that hysteria was ever a thing). He knows better than anyone how to be rational. How to examine facts logically. He’s made a career out of divorcing himself from his feelings. Usually, people – John too, occasionally – look down on him for this. And for once that he’s not able to (feelings are brain chemicals, and drugs mess with that, it’s not like he can help himself) he’s scolded? Just say he will never please anyone and leave it at that.

If the consulting detective snaps, angrily, way too loudly deducing some nearby bystanders…well, they’re collateral damage. Sherlock needs to prove that – upset or not, drugged or not – his brain works, and there’s no reason to treat him like a child, discount his words, his feelings…everything and anything about him. John might not appreciate him, not think him good enough, but he better do him the fucking courtesy of not behaving condescendingly. Isn’t his doctor the one who’s always so concerned about politeness anyway?              

The blond’s reaction is, frankly, the worst he could ever have. He could agree that Sherlock is not a broken thing. He could pull off the doctor card (pretty much the only authority John can whip over him in this moment). He could even storm off, saying he’ll be back when  they’ll both be calmer. They’re all too used to that. Instead, he passive-aggressively sneers, questioning why the detective would listen to ‘just a friend’.

That is simply too much. He doesn’t have friends. He has clients. Acquaintances. Colleagues. People that use him. People he uses. Family. (Often, these categories intertwine with each other.) And one fucking soulmate who shields himself behind all kind of downgrading terms to cover his refusal to acknowledge their relationships. Of course, only the first part of this rant makes out of his lips. The whole pub doesn’t need to know.

That is when John opts for the old and tried ‘getting air’ technique. With a last parting shot that implies that Sherlock deserves what he’s got. Well, you know what? Fuck him. Fuck soulmates everywhere. Fuck hellhounds, and this whole case, and everything. Just fuck it. Now, if only he’d been consciously instead of sneakily drugged, he’d know where to go to take his mind off this. Instead he just has this stupid pub’s alcohol. As if it’s ever going to be enough.  


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: still nothing mine. Obviously.

John _marches_ his way out of the inn. What the fuck just happened? Sherlock having a meltdown, and being all ‘oh look at me, I’m having an emotion and no idea what to do with it – first time it happened in my life’. He’s been influenced by the atmosphere, and Henry at his side blabbering spooky stories into his ears. Must have been.

If there was a hellhound out there, the former soldier somehow doubts that he would have stayed put when the two of them retreated – Henry quite more swiftly than the sleuth. Dogs give chase. It’s what they do. Dogs bred for fighting or hunting, even more so. He would either have seen – and shot – the beast, or he would have found both men dead (and probably not survived it).

With anyone else, John would have patted them, maybe offered a hug – possibly helped them through controlled breathing. But it wasn’t anyone else. It was Sherlock, and as much as the man doesn’t mind the occasional touch, the doctor isn’t sure that – with his brilliant brain already in overdrive – such an approach wouldn’t have felt overwhelming instead. Fact is, he has no idea of how the detective’s brain works. Not like everyone else’s, that’s for sure. But the doctor has not enough data to hazard a diagnosis, either. 

That’s why he’d tried the ‘rational’ approach. He really hoped it was what the sleuth would have wanted. To be reminded of himself, helped just through words to recalibrate his brain, a sort of ‘oh yes – that is how the world is supposed to be’ little reminder. But of course it blew in his fucking face.

After all, John is not good enough for him. Never been enough and never will be. And Sherlock just made it as clear as possible without physically slapping him. (Actually, that would have hurt a lot less. Trust John. He knows. Well, not about Sherlock, obviously, but the point stands.) The doctor has not pulled the “I care for you because I am, oh, let’s see, just your fucking soulmate, so maybe listen to me for once, hm?” card, of course he hasn’t, he didn’t want to cause a row. But friends – he’d thought it was safe to claim they were friends by now.  

The denial had hurt. Of course it had. it also explained some things, maybe – if Sherlock thought so  little of him, the occasional carelessness was more than justified. John had wanted to lash out, then. But John Watson is not the kind of person who attacks people who hurt him (if you attack someone he cares about, though, you’re toast). Possibly because he’s damn well used to being hurt.

All he does is walk, fuming…and that’s when he sees the blinking lights again. Morse? Signals? What is that? There’s activity on the moor anyhow. And that’s when the idea forms. Why not investigate? He’s never got around to explain what he noticed to the sleuth, and that means that he’s never been shot down, been told that it’s obvious what these flickering lights imply, and that it’s pointless to pursue them. (At this point, it wouldn’t surprise him if the consulting detective would tell him that, because he expects to be considered useless.)

He might not be the detective of the pair, but he has eyes and a brain, functioning legs and the ability to make choices. And if it is Baskerville’s men conducting nightly experiments, he has enough experience with the military to know how to behave – at the very least, to avoid being shot. It would serve Sherlock right if he could go back to the inn and casually mention that he’s followed a clue the other was too busy snarling at him to notice, and now he’s solved the case. It is a daydream (well, at night...which makes it a bit ridiculous), but it gives him a direction.

He’s not aimlessly wandering just to burn off excess energy anymore. He has a goal, and with the irritation still fuelling his steps, it’s not too long before he arrives at the heart of his private mystery. Because Murphy’s law is never wrong, instead of being able to go back all smug about having solved the mystery, all John wants for a second is for the earth to swallow him.     

It’s not an experiment site. It’s not a code. It’s the favourite place of all exhibitionists in town – and possibly farther. Not that they would mind too much his popping in to investigate, but it’s the point of his certainly not seeking that. And the fact that, since he’s stopped lying to himself about the soulmate thing and one-sidedly decided to stop going out (not that Sherlock ever has, so that’s the one thing he can’t accuse his obviously very much unwilling soulmate of), he’s gone through a dry spell that makes the show doubly frustrating.

John is seriously considering if he should go back or actually dig a hole in which to bury himself. The mix of embarrassment, hurt, anger and disappointment – these last two aimed only at himself, after the latest blunder – make the prospect suddenly seem reasonable and desirable, even.

The text from Sherlock is unexpected – what can the man need, and why would he even reach to John? The inn’s owners should be able to provide all that he himself can provide, because at the moment he has just proven that he’s not good for much more than fetcher of phones and occasional cook.

The sleuth idly gossiping about who’s there surprises the blogger – is the “don’t be boring, and don’t state the obvious” policy gone with his…flatmate’s ( _that_ , at least, nobody tries to deny) peace of mind? It’s not like John has asked to see their client’s therapist. He has his own – well, had, despite everything that went on he’s stopped seeing Ella, as long as his psychological issues don’t cross into physical ones he’d rather ignore it all.

That the detective wants him to investigate, shocks him even more. Sherlock can’t be more than a few feet away from her. Why doesn’t he deduce her, or interrogate her, or something? Is he still that upset? …Doesn’t he know that even a lobotomized Holmes would be a better option than a fully functioning John Watson? (After the too-recent blunder, he doesn’t really feel reliable as partner in detection). The consulting detective’s lack of esteem for him has been expressed all too loudly not so long ago. So why should John be involved at all?

He doesn’t ponder it – he just asks. And receives no answer, obviously. Well, not one in words. Just a photo. And yes, Henry’s shrink is young and surprisingly pretty. A few months ago, John would have sweet-talked her into giving him a chance (and hopefully into bed after that). 

Well, at this point he has a choice. Ignore her, Sherlock, the case and everything else, and just walk some more until he doesn’t feel like shit. Or head back, talk to a pretty woman, and puzzle later if his…mate (details undecided) asked him because he thinks John is a decent detective in his own right, as a backhanded “You might be my soulmate but I like it better when you’re out shagging someone else, you’re less insufferable afterwards”.

And John is an idiot and he knows it, because he picks the investigation…no, let’s be honest, he picks the woman. Because if he’s nothing – absolutely nothing – to Sherlock (which is understandable, even, he’s never been anything much) why should he stay faithful to the man like he’d vowed to himself to do instead of getting a leg over?

Soon, he’s back at the inn, and she’s there, sipping a drink and making small talk with the owners. Target pinpointed. He pretends to have no idea who she is, of course, it wouldn’t do to have her suspect his intentions. A stupid pickup line, and here she is, laughing. A different type of woman would have rolled her eyes, maybe, but after listening all day to other people’s paranoia, a laugh is exactly what the doctor ordered.

He steers her away from the owners, who are silently glaring at him because apparently they suspect him of brazenly cheating on his boyfriend. He wonders silently for a second if they would be more surprised by being proven in no uncertain terms that the sleuth, despite their bond, wants nothing to do with him, or by reading his texts and discovering that Sherlock is the one who put him up to it.

To keep her smiling, he even shares some of Sherlock’s deductions about the other patrons, and earns himself a very promising giggle and a scolding without any heat at all. For a moment, he’s tempted to disregard the investigation part of his mission and just flirt her pants off her. He knows he can do that. It wouldn’t be the first time.

But the prospect of the consulting detective’s further disappointment is something he can’t tolerate. He tells himself he does it for Henry, who’s a good lad and needs help, but the truth is – he’s the detective’s puppet. Or at least it’s how he feels this very second, which – if faced with his own shrink – he would be forced to admit is a not very good day.  

And that’s the very reason he flounders, probably. If he wasn’t reeling from feeling like a failure already, he might have enough common sense to concoct a  believable excuse for his enquiries right off the bat. As it is, his pitiful attempts to prod her about Henry’s tendency to hallucinate (and his dad’s paranoia, since they’re at it) only serve to make her suspicious. With Henry turning up on a show, she must have her share of journalists trying to approach her, more or less covertly. He’s news, even if local news. And she has every right to be bloody tired of it by now.

That said, he’s finally found an idea that works, thanks to Sherlock’s frankly alarming – and absolutely genuine, since he had no reason to fake it – earlier mental breakdown. Whether out of the sheer medical compulsion to help, or hoping for a new client, she’s ready to open up. It’s in the lines on her face.

…And that’s exactly when Frankland (when has he come in?) pops in. John wonders flightily how the man is still alive, because his overly cheerful, permanently joking manner – or so it appears – does get on one’s nerves when they’re busy. On second thought, he should probably murder Ella. He knew her blog idea was sheer bullshit. Look what it’s brought them – unwanted attention on all sides. Donovan’s jeering being well grounded for a change, Jim bloody Moriarty, (yep, that escalated quickly)…everyone would have benefitted from him shutting the fuck up on the web. At another time, with more ease of mind, he’d acknowledge that all the clients his blog brought on saved both their sanity, but not now.   

Of course doctor Mortimer clams up after that. Fucking Frankland (it’s a surprise that that is not his first name, really) managed to make him sound like a snoop worse than any journalist _and_ gay. Seriously, live-in PA? What’s wrong with flatmate, friend, or even colleague? The idiot hasn’t said anything John can reasonably pummel him for, more’s the pity, despite his black mood. But he’s ensured that Henry’s therapist will feel deceived and used in the most humiliating way. John doesn’t blame her for getting away in a huff. He just dreads having to face Sherlock – tomorrow, if he’s sulking in his room as usual…small mercies – and admitting he’s been completely useless.   

Well, what is he going to do now? At home, he would probably slip downstairs and watch crap telly with Mrs. Hudson. She’s awesome at being supportive while pretending to ignore whatever issue you’re having. He somehow doubts that bad telly on its own, all alone in his room, is going to do the trick, though. and he certainly can’t face Sherlock now. He’s already tried outrunning his problems, and look where his stroll brought him. As much as he hates doing it, he’ll just face the disapproving owners and have a drink. Not too much, though, no matter how tempting it looks. They’re investigating. He can’t allow to be hungover tomorrow. His soulmate will think badly enough of him as it is.   

Sherlock, for all his famed cleverness, wouldn’t guess (wildly so, this time) his partner’s reasoning and feelings correctly if both their lives depended on it – which is about the strongest stimulus you can offer him. Then again, it’s no surprise, with the drug still coursing faintly in his bloodstream, and a befuddling buzz from the alcohol he’s ingested, and which Mycroft would undoubtedly be outraged about. Not for his recourse to mind-altering substances to deal with the harshness of life, but because the liquor is not up to his brother’s (and the Diogenes club’s) exacting standards.

After having his feelings and health so blatantly disregarded – or at least that’s how his impaired brain sees the recent events – the consulting detective gives himself a monster headache trying to figure out what a proper reaction would be.

Teen Sherlock, huddled against the door of his attic, mumbles it has to be their fault. Hasn’t it always been, since before he came to be, ever? The only reasonable behaviour is to please John anyway they can.

Tipsy and slightly high Sherlock, stumbling out of his corner, growls that he’s angry of being always blamed for everything. He might be a genius, in comparison with most other people, but taking responsibility for every bad thing in the world (and working his ass off to ensure that everything runs smoothly) is how Mycroft got where he is. Sure, everyone agrees his big brother is more successful and better adjusted, but he should remember that becoming Mycroft is about as far from his own life goals as one can get without dying in a ditch.

Why should he bend backwards for his uncaring soulmate, once again? Why not give him a taste of being used for one’s self-interest, the way John trails after him for his adrenaline fix? Maybe they really deserve each other. Two junkies looking for the next dose, his doctor ensuring that he does not drop dead mid-case and the sleuth providing the excitement that the blogger obviously needs for his mental health.

Rational Sherlock is usually the one shutting everyone up and taking the decisions. But unfortunately, he’s nowhere to be found right now. Which is why, instead of both being forcibly shut up and at least a token attempt at analysing the situation, teen Sherlock wins for a moment when he hisses, “What if John leaves? Permanently?”

Only, his brain’s finally collective efforts to make John happy seem to come empty. What does John like? He doesn’t have a mad chase to offer…when a very pretty woman walks in. For a moment, the sleuth tastes bile in his mouth. Of course. For some reason, John has not dated as much lately. He probably just needs to get off, to be in a better mood. No matter how much the very idea of it makes the detective itch. Then again, after so many ruined dates, he somehow doubts that John would take his suggestions.     

He wanders over to the owners again, that seem to like him for some reason, despite the semi -cene he’s caused before. The sleuth nods towards her and asks who she is, with the oldest excuse in the book – saying she looks remarkably like someone he used to know. 

Oh – perfect. Someone they need to investigate. Well, that’s great (horrible). Give John a rational excuse to talk to any female, and he’ll have her in bed by the end of the night. He tells the owners he’s wrong, after all, and retires to his bedroom. He’s done his best to put John in a happy disposition. It doesn’t mean that he should stay and watch him flirt. See everything he wants showered on any random stranger just because she owns a pair of boobs.    

Left alone, in the literal dark – there’s no need to turn on the light, it’s not like anything in the room, however cosy it is, that deserves his attention – his thoughts find no rest. He can’t work on the case – at least not for a while yet, he needs to be sure that his senses will not deceive him again. Unable to know what exactly he’s been dosed with, or how much he’s taken, it’s better to wait a bit longer, despite his uncommonly high resistance to too many drugs for most people’s tastes.

About that: when and how he’s been drugged? Something both Henry and he have done that John didn’t…The sleuth squashes a rush of envy. If John had been drugged too, he wouldn’t have been so dismissive afterwards. Then again, you don’t want the one with the gun to see things that aren’t there…He really should be thankful.

Sherlock retraces everything that happened since Henry walked into their flat. Something…something…there must be an easy way to justify only the two of them being drugged. Finally, he has the easiest – ridiculously so – way figured out. The sugar! If someone wants to ensure that his client will keep seeing demons in the moor, earning an invite and somehow swapping the boy’s sugar reserve with a tainted one could be the simplest thing, what with the young man living alone, plus his being, at his core, a kind, if stupid, person. For one man whose sanity would have actually profited from being a stuck up prick, looking down to everyone else and not admitting anyone in his mansion, he had to be a decent lad instead.

Of course, he’s not a hundred percent sure. They have a few more things in common…way too many for his tastes, at that. The sleuth can’t help but remember again John’s solicitude towards Henry not hours before. Soulmate or not (after all, it’s obvious that his blogger doesn’t like the idea at all), what if John decides he prefers Henry fucking Knight as companion?

Sherlock shakes his head violently. No, no. For one, Henry too is the wrong gender to charm his doctor. And John is not so shallow to be dazzled by sheer money. He would have accepted Mycroft’s offer back then, if he was the type. Henry’s helpless attitude, though, might win him points since it’s coupled with such a friendly disposition. John is born to be a hero (that’s no surprise at all) and a damsel in – mostly medical – distress will appeal to him…especially one who knows how to be properly grateful. It’s obvious.

Well, what is he supposed to do in the meantime? Enjoy the companionship while it lasts? Give up the case and drag John back home, away from seductive therapists and clients too nice for their own good? Tempting, so tempting…

No, no. He needs to stop. He shouldn’t be dependent on his unwilling soulmate. After all, he’s lived most of his life without knowing him and he was perfectly fine. Yes. Fine. Tipsy Sherlock gets angry at Teen Sherlock’s giggles when the thought flits through his head.   

He’s the world’s only consulting detective, damn, and that’s what he’ll still be when he’s discarded. He needs to stop obsessing over John Watson, and work on his case. He’ll just analyse the sugar tomorrow and then figure out who’s swapped them. With Frankland vouching for them, the people at Baskerville shouldn’t put up too much of a fuss if he asks them to loan him the use of a lab for an hour or so. Of course, if anyone inside is responsible for that, they won’t be too happy, but protesting openly would make them suspect, so he doesn’t expect any objection. And the Major – after the mess up – won’t dare to deny them anything.

His shaky brain doesn’t seem able to really leave behind the John matter, though. Tipsy Sherlock, who’s still angry and hurt, insists that he needs a deeper understanding of the drug’s working, and hence he should be allowed to observe it when his own brain is not impaired by it.

Their visit made it all too clear that no one at Baskerville will question the ethical standards of his project. Not even when the drug requires obviously a human test subject (you can’t interrogate a monkey about its hallucinations). Now, who could be an untainted person to serve as guinea pig?

He doesn’t even pretend that he’s not thinking of his blogger. It’s not like it’s not habit. Frankly, as soon as drug involvement became obvious, John should have started expecting it to pop up in his cup.  After the way his own turmoil has been dismissed, it’s entirely deserved. Possibly, after being made to see the hound from hell himself, John will start to understand how intolerable, “Just be rational,” sounds. Seriously, isn’t his doctor supposed to be the empathic one?    

Truthfully, Teen Sherlock tries to object to the plan. “I thought we wanted to keep John happy,” he points out, sounding concerned. With Rational Sherlock still not fully functional, to value the weight of every argument, though, his younger self is definitely drowned out by the oldest excuse in the detective’s book. “It’s for the case.” And John knows perfectly well – or he should, unless he forgets it, dazzled by his amatory pursuits – that they’re not here on holiday.

Anything goes, to solve a case. Even a case that is not technically on a strict deadline. If nobody bothered to solve the murder of their client’s father for twenty years, and Henry’s life isn’t technically in danger… After Moriarty’s countdowns, or even simple kidnappings, where the victims might be killed at anytime, now there’s certainly not the same sense of urgency. But the detective certainly doesn’t want to dillydally here, either. The less time they spend in this godforsaken place, the more chances that his blogger will follow him back home and forget about everyone involved.

What John won’t forget, hopefully, is the lesson he’s about to receive. Making too obvious you resent the relationship they share, and that you’re just in it for the thrill, will make people use you right back. It’s not like Sherlock could help what they are, after all, or ask for it. He didn’t pick his soulmate.

Even if, in a tragic display of cliché, he would have picked John over anyone else to share his life. While the reverse is obviously not true.  Oh well. He might not have gained the partner he’d dreamed of, when he was young and stupid (why does Mycroft to always be right with his warnings? Sherlock hates that), but at least he has a guinea pig that can fill a questionnaire. One needs to accept whatever silver lining a situation offers. Usually, they’re even less convenient than this.     

He doesn’t believe in this entirely, of course. But at least half of the night is gone (unless the drug scrambled his internal clock, too, which he can’t exclude), and he really can’t do anything else of importance about the case until the morrow. And he certainly isn’t going to try and find John now. It’s not like they have anything to speak of anyway. Actions speak louder than words…especially because most people don’t care enough to fake them also, in order to maintain whatever image they wish to project.

He takes his phone and shoots a quick email at Baskerville, asking for what he needs. Of course he doesn’t expect an immediate reply, anyone on the clock will be reluctant to wake the Major to make the necessary arrangement. But at least, by the time John is back from his not exactly date, he expects everything to be worked out.

With nothing better to do, he might as well try to sleep. He only prays that both John and the base personnel stay out of his dreams. In such a situation, a nightmare would be preferable to his imagination leaping along such a painful, humiliating dead end. Hopefully, the drug will help steer his dreamscape to the dark side, instead of simply rousing illusions from his mind. The truth is painful enough. He doesn’t need his wish-fulfilment to make the difference feel all the starker.   


	35. Chapter 35

_Disclaimer: I don’t own a thing  A.N. Sorry, everyone. I had hoped, at one point, to recuperate for last month’s failed update due to complete writer’s block. I almost didn’t manage this month’s either, and I know it’s not as good as it should be, but…this is my best, relatively to this plot. Let’s hope for better in January (December is for challenges). Sorry again!!_

Blissfully, Sherlock can’t remember a single dream. The following morning a grudging permission is waiting for him on his phone when he wakes, because the army makes people get up at ungodly hours he’s more used to seeing from the other side, when he pulls one of his one-nighters. Oh well. Even if he had doubts about going through with this, now would be too late to change his mind. Just as good that he doesn’t, because John clearly needs to feel the drug’s effects to stop saying ridiculous things like ‘be logical’ – one does not boostrap oneself out of a drug trip. Sherlock should know.

The owners are disgustingly cheerful this morning, too. The detective tries to stifle a rush if envy – is this what a proper soulmate relationship gets you? Not that he wants to become an obviously brainless person, looking out to ensure people are comfortable, like them. Still, it’s the principle of the thing. A quick word lets him know that yesterday’s approach ended badly for his partner. Sherlock draws a relieved breath. He hadn’t dared to knock on John’s door, in case he’d discover that his blogger wasn’t there, still revelling in the bed of Henry’s therapist…or worse, being treated to the spectacle of the naked woman in John’s bed.

The consulting detective is almost surprised that, in that case, John is not already in the common room, ready to start the investigation. But maybe – like himself yesterday night – he’s indulging himself and sleeping longer than his usual just in case they’ll have to stay up for days. Sherlock decides to take advantage of his absence. Keep interaction down to a minimum.     

Now, first things first: if he is intent on doing the experiment he bugged the Major about, he needs to get his hands on the drug. And if he wants the drug, he needs to visit his client – and ignore the stab of jealousy the man evokes. It’s not Henry’s fault that his soulmate is an asshole, who would rather care for pretty much anyone but him. (Now, that might be an exaggeration; but he’s frustrated and spoiling for a fight, a scene…anything, really.)

Not wanting Henry to suspect his inner turmoil, or notice the sugar theft – though that’s not really something people keep track of most of the time – the sleuth goes to the other extreme. Rather than showing any distaste, he’s…well, frankly, disgustingly chipper, and that according to Sherlock himself. He doesn’t usually overact a part. But, usually, he’s not coming down from an accidental drugging either.

The silver lining is that his client is in a semi-permanent drugged state, if his behaviour since the first day is any indication, so he won’t analyse the situation too deeply. Not if the detective is quick enough…and he certainly plans on being quick. Get in, prepare coffee to have an excuse to get at the sugar, pocket some, get out before Henry has figured out which way is up, much less what the consulting detective is up to. Sherlock even masks it as taking care of their client, just as John did yesterday. Not that he cares what happens to the man…much. Certainly not enough to make him breakfast.

Henry’s main concern seems to be why Sherlock would deny to have seen the same thing he did (apparently hallucination is not a word his client knows). Of course, the sleuth ignores such a line of questioning entirely. But his client disregards his queries too, so it’s only fair.

Well, no, it’s not entirely exact that Henry disregards them. It seems more as if the young man feels that the consulting detective has suddenly started speaking Chinese. The only inquiry that has been bugging the detective since he accepted the case is “Why hound?” Why not dog? If Henry had been passionate about dogs since childhood, or maybe his father was, pointing out that the dog – the monster – was a hound rather than a mastiff or a sheepdog or whatever might have been understandable. But the man knows about dogs just as much as Sherlock knows about astronomy, and there’s no doubt that if Knight senior was a notorious dog lover, Henry would have mentioned the dramatic irony. So where does the specific wording come from? Why wouldn’t Henry say dog, mutt, stray, or anything else as vague?

For someone who’s given interviews, consulted a therapist, and probably mulled over his tragic loss his whole life, you’d think that his client should be more self-aware. Every word weighed and dissected. Instead, he doesn’t seem to find anything peculiar with his choice of words. Sherlock is tempted to advise him to fire his therapist. How can she help him deal with what happened if she won’t even listen to the way he tells his story, and challenge him to reflect about it?  

Instead, he sticks to the mission. Take what he needs – not that his client seems to be very aware of what’s happening under his nose – and get away before Henry can form a complete sentence. He’s more than determined to slip in John’s bedroom, if the man is still sleeping for some reason. Hopefully, even purposefully ruined as it will be, an offer of coffee will be enough to reconcile the both of them.

If he’s forgiven for snapping yesterday, and then his blogger proves himself paramount to solving the case, it might be enough to solve the rift between them. And yes, he’s purposefully planning to upset John, but the man might benefit from having to walk a mile or two in his shoes of the night before. It will be a controlled situation, anyway. Heck, Sherlock could have rushed away from his hallucination, slipped and broken an ankle. That’s more risk than his frustrating soulmate is going to go through. 

Seeing John outside, intent at breakfast, the sleuth feels a small stab to his useless heart. Has John purposefully avoided him? Waited until he was gone to allow himself a meal? Is the detective’s behaviour really so abhorrent that his blogger doesn’t even want to share a coffee anymore?  That sounds like a cruel and unusual punishment.

He tries to make small talk (he can’t exactly shove a coffee at John and go on his merry way, not when his soulmate is in such a mood). He. Makes. Small. Talk. For John. He pretends however awkwardly to be normal. His problem is that mentioning John’s private line of enquiry (obviously useless, but he’ll take anything to stop his soulmate from ignoring him) only makes him curt, and asking about his date… well, that seems to make him snap even more angrily.

His doctor is smiling, and it’s not a good thing. It’s not one of the soft smiles, or happy smiles, or ‘God life is absurd but this is why it’s funny’ smiles. Thank God it isn’t the “I’ll murder you in ten seconds if you’re still here” smile, but it’s definitely more an angry baring of teeth than anything you could wish more of. What’s got into him? Does Sherlock really deserve all this?

John leaves his breakfast three quarters through, apparently because he can’t tolerate Sherlock’s presence at all now. Well, that won’t do. Work-mode inner Sherlock pretends it’s just because they have a case to solve and an experiment to make that being so suddenly abandoned is inacceptable. Teen Sherlock, instead, is now quite happy that his attic is barricaded because he’s going to die in here anyway so why would anyone want to reach him. He’s dying. He’s absolutely dying if John rejects him entirely. (Inner Mycroft – because of course he has to meddle – says that Teen Sherlock just never learned how not to be dramatic.)     

The detective needs to stop him. For…everything, really. All reasons disclosable and not. What does John want from him? What do people do? Explain. Certainly explaining will help. So, while he wants nothing more than go on with his project – the earliest this case is solved, the earliest they’ll be back home, and hopefully they’ll settle back into theit brand of normalcy – he tries to justify himself. Yesterday’s freakout was reasonable. Okay, that might be an odd way to phrase it, but…Even when explained the reasons of his behaviour (if he cannot trust his perceptions, what use is he?) John is less than sympathetic, and obviously has not forgiven him for…for what? Really, as if being unwillingly drugged didn’t warrant a bit of leeway – Sherlock is planning to be much more understanding after his experiment.   

His soulmate is still leaving, and the sleuth mentally scrambles, looking for the magic word that will stop him. Re-examining yesterday’s data…well, he hadn’t been polite, sure, but nothing that should make John want to leave. Unless….could it be that his denial of being friends had turned his blogger so harshly against him? He needs to be calm today, and he should have the drugs out of his system anyway, but God, if this cold shoulder is the treatment he gets, he still wants to scream. “I don’t have friends, I have a soulmate, you twat!”

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t, John is angry enough at him as it is, and he’s trying to stop the man from leaving, not urging him to do so. If John wants to be his friend…well, that’s still not enough, and showing a bit more compassion when the circumstances require it wouldn’t hurt either, but it is a step in the right direction. He tries for a compromise, and yes, he sounds ridiculous to his own ears, but needs must. “I meant it yesterday, John. I don’t have _friends_. There’s only one for me.” It is ambiguous, and would certainly allow the man to define them as he likes.

But it’s still…not enough? Seriously? Desperate by now, he tries the true and tried John Watson Make People Happy Technique™. Praise. Abundant, exaggerated praise. Well, no, not exaggerated. The tragedy is that John _does_ deserve to be extolled, for his own intrinsic qualities. It’s just their relationship that is fucked up for some reason. Why they can’t move on from that, what he’s  _exactly_ done – what he _is_ , he suspects – to deserve the subtle ostracization is a question that will plague him to his dying day.   

That finally seems to have some effect. Blessed be flattery and human weakness to it. Mostly, he just throws back at John the frequent compliments he receives from his blogger, and it’s obvious that it feels as if he’s floundering. These are not his words, and walking behind him like a puppy singing his praises feels awkward, but if that’s what keeps him his soulmate, so be it. He tries to elaborate further – of course John is amazing, but how is he amazing? Finally John stops, after his usefulness for case-solving is pointed out. A long look, and he seems to decide this isn’t a joke.   

From that to discussing the case, it’s the most natural thing in the world. They’re finally on track. His…blogger (that at least) is finally in a positive mindset, and they might solve this stupid case soon enough. As soon as the sleuth manages to offer him a cup of coffee.

And of course that’s when people start meddling. Lestrade. What the fuck is Lestrade doing here? Shoo. He doesn’t need a handler. He just needs to be allowed to work, so he can put this painful mess behind himself and get back to their somehow tolerable routine, Lestrade included, if he insists. Not that the inspector meant to be here – Sherlock would bet that he’s been ripped away from his holiday because of Mycroft’s orders, no matter how much he denies it. Well, Mycroft can fuck right off. They’ll need to have words on that.

It’s not his day – his week, more like – because John welcomes Lestrade all too happily. Why wouldn’t he? It’s just Sherlock he can’t stand. It’s the inspector he happily shares his discoveries with. Sure, he might not have heard it from the therapist. But he hasn’t been forthcoming with possibly significant news until Lestrade came here. Part of the detective is bitter enough to look forward to his experiment soon to come.

At least that brings them all back to the pub, so the coffee offer is even more natural. Luckily, John has not accidentally solved the case, or the drugging would be rather awkward, What he’s observed is nothing more than a small ploy to exploit the local myth. And if it’s not bad enough, that story ends in the poor dog being put down, and there’s no hint that it’s a lie. He wants to scream.

It was vicious? Dogs are not vicious. Poorly trained or abused dogs can be vicious. For vegetarian, nature-loving dudes, these people are so idiotic – what did they do to…him? Her? (Seriously, no person loving their pet would call them an ‘it’, no matter how grammatically proper.) He can’t wait to get away.

At least, he has the occasion to discuss his hallucination naturally and carefully plant suggestions in John’s brain. Now, he just needs to bring him to Baskerville. Thankfully, when in case-mode, John never challenges him.         

John, frankly, didn’t want to face Sherlock that morning at all. Yesterday’s declarations still smarted, of course they did. He’d take better to outright physical abuse. So no, he wasn’t going to let him off the hook easily. He needs to impress on the maddening if enchanting idiot that denying any sort of tie between the two of them is not on, ta very much.

The message seems to stick, though. John half expects the sleuth to try and say he was right (that’s not right, Sherlock might be ashamed of their actual relationship, but damn it if it’s nothing), which is why any attempt at justification flies so badly. 

Afterwards, for a moment he wonders if he’s being mocked. Fantastic or amazing is clearly not what the consulting detective things of him. It takes him a while (and not being parroted) to understand that the man is legitimately trying to apologise, and just has no idea why. Which makes the attempt he tried at all…rather adorable, to be honest. Not that he can admit that. He would be manipulated all the time if Sherlock knew.

Thank God for Greg’s sudden arrival, it helps him relax. He can so use someone who won’t deny they’re friends at the moment. At least he’s guaranteed someone who won’t laugh at him if his suppositions turn out to be wrong.

Not that the detective does this time, despite his attempt being ultimately useless towards the solution of the case. Sherlock seems to be still in apologetic mode, and speaking of dogs, hellhounds or otherwise, he looks so much like a whipped dog that John just has to comfort him, and if that requires swallowing disgustingly sweetened coffee, so be it.     

When the consulting detective decides to drag them again at Baskerville, part of John suspects it’s a bad idea. If the scientists do have weaponized, genetically engineered dogs they’re still not going to show these to the two of them, are they?  No matter how much of a fan that annoying doctor is, not even he would come forward with, “And these are our new murder dogs, a couple of which managed to escape and hide in the moor, but never mind that.”

But the sleuth insists their authorisation is actually confirmed this time (though John isn’t sure if the confirmation comes from Frankland guaranteeing for them or Mycroft) so they might as well lead a proper investigation instead of  glancing around while hurrying to escape being caught. The blogger can’t even object to that – it does make sense. He just wishes he had a proper argument to make Sherlock rethink this decision.  It might not be the most expedient way to solve this case, maybe. But his colleagues’ careless – no ruthless – handling of test subjects and pithy dismissing of ethics worry him. Their attitude rubs John the wrong way. 

Sure enough, as soon as they arrive at the base Sherlock is directed towards Major Barrymore’s rooms. John wants to follow him. He’s pretty sure that  the stubborn characters of both men would clash until the resulting sparks might set fire to an unattended chemical in a whole different wing of the building.

Then again, when Sherlock huffs, “I’ll handle him, John. You’re the doctor, and for once, you might see more than I could. Genetics is not exactly my main expertise.  I need you in the field to examine as much as you can, before the Major gets bored and kicks us out – please?” there’s no way he can refuse. It’s not every day that the consulting detective admits any flaw, and when it happens, of course John isn’t going to object.

So he parts from the detective with only a plea of, “Don’t antagonise him on purpose, I can’t read a scene in five minutes like you do,” and tries to hide his surprise when he’s handed a keycard and pointed towards the labs but not escorted there. Even if Sherlock has been acknowledged as Mycroft, that’s a whole lot of trust to put in someone.    

The ‘keep out unless you want a cold’ sign makes him smile. He’s used to humour like this. For once, he’s in his milieu all around. He’s useful, and even Sherlock had to recognise it. Good.

…Once inside the door, all his cheerfulness wanes. There’s not a soul. Now, the cheeky sign and the reluctance of military personnel to accompany him suddenly look ominous. Has he walked into a trap? If the Major decided that any supervision was a bad idea, having already seen how Sherlock tends to rush into situations, maybe they thought he’d stay with John, talk to the officer a minute and then hurry to check here…where he’d find whatever expects them and ‘die accidentally’ because he couldn’t bother with proper safety precautions. He’s pretty sure that he’s read a story like that.

The sudden dazzling lights against him and piercing alarms make him almost nauseous. Of fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Before someone tried to blind him, he’d seen some cages. Covered cages. Which meant he couldn’t  even be sure  what they contained…or if they were unlatched. Fuck this. He’s out of here.

Or he would be, if the fucking keycard worked. Someone is absolutely trying to murder him. Sending him in seconds before the codes changed… Why the fuck has he thought that bringing an illegal firearm into a military base would be a bad idea? He’s going to die without a chance to defend himself. No, they’re fellow soldiers, not serial killers…there must have been a mixup. They’ll have noticed it. Fixed it by now. If only he swipes the card again…   

No. At least they stopped blinding and deafening him on purpose, but it takes him a bunch of seconds to reorient himself and fight the afterimages off in the following twilight. Oddly, it’s the thought “Sherlock fucking dragged me here and he’s undoubtedly next on their murder list” that gives him something to hold onto. Sherlock is outside. He can help. Get to this door and open it at least. Maybe pretending he wants to join the examination and have the bastards think he’ll just be mauled too.

In the meantime, he needs to know his surroundings. Staying plastered to the door will only give whatever is in here something against which to pin him. The freaked out animals and bent cages don’t help his nerves. Whatever it is, it _got out_. And it’s looking for dinner. Looks like John is on the menu.

He peers in the darkness, and sure enough, there it is. How the fuck did he miss it before. It’s glowing an eerie, sickly green that wouldn’t be out of place in a ghostbuster movie. The size of a pony, if not a smidge more. And burning, bloodthirsty eyes, red like flame. Heck, even his saliva is glowing, while it drips onto the floor.  

There’s a deep, _hungry_ growl. No. No no no no no. He’s not survived Afghanistan to be killed by his own army’s pets. Since he’s weaponless, he needs shelter. Very sturdy shelter. His eyes zero on another lab door, just as impenetrable as the other one. If his murderer-to-be have forgotten to change all the codes…

Of course they haven’t. They’re scientist. Oh God. He’s going to be eaten. Wait…it’s not rushing towards him…yet. Maybe all the tampering has accidentally messed up his senses? He needs a place, before the bastard does jump on him and starts munching…these maws look likely to snap bones all too easily.

Safety, safety…He won’t survive until Sherlock comes to find him eventually, out in the open. He must not hyperventilate. That won’t help him now. With no other options, he consider the cage the beast must have vacated. It must be steeped in the creature’s smell, and it certainly doesn’t look like that…thing is eager to go back to his crate. And the bars are bent, but not entirely broken, so if anything can effectively protect him inside here, this is his best bet.

John has never been more grateful for his compact size. He can curl up inside without being too cramped. This is a situation where you don’t want to develop any impairment in your limbs. The cloth thrown over it, flimsy as it is, feels like an extra protection, keeping him hidden.  

Another growl. He thought that Sherlock would come check on him, but…how long is it that he’s trapped? It feels like an eternity. The Major is keeping Sherlock…what if he’s thrown the mask? No, he wouldn’t, not in his office. Somewhere they can clean easier.

Fuck it, He can’t wait here until the detective decides to come. He’ll die before. If not killed by the beast, because of a heart attack. He might be used to his life being in danger, but he’s not used to being helpless when it happens. His fight or flight instincts are screaming, and neither is an option. All he can do is call for help. And Sherlock – whatever else the insane murderers holed in this place are doing – better find a way to get him out of here. They have their spats, sure, but letting him become dinner is a bit much even for the consulting detective.    

So he calls. Trying his best to murmur, just in case the possibly blind animal’s hearing is exceptional. He thought that a sentence would be enough. Two, at most. Instead, his partner makes him want to scream (not doing that, either, he has a minimum of self-preservation). Keep talking? Keep talking? Why should he? It’s not like he has that many details to offer. And besides, what details do you need beyond very big, very bad monster free to roam in the room?  Because if it’s an attempt to distract him, it’s not working and it’s not useful.

Or…or it’s to check if he’s still alive, but can’t Sherlock bloody see that his chances of actually remaining so hinge on not setting off the thing in here with him, and every word lowers his probability of going undiscovered? Why can’t the idiot just listen for John’s breathing, or something? If the place is noisy, maybe listen harder instead of making him speak and so elevating the risk that the thing will get at him.  

And still he talks, in the softest whisper he can muster, because he doesn’t want Sherlock to hang up. The man’s voice is his last grasp on sanity. Help is coming. Now, if only he could sound less irritatingly calm, that would be awesome. If it’s done to stop him from panicking, it’s. Not. Helping. Not at all.

Less talking, more running. But he can’t say so, because this is not the moment to be arguing. Soon. Once the detective brings the cavalry, or at the very least filches a gun from someone. He’s putting his very life in the man’s hands, come on, Sherlock…come _on_!   


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own anything. Obviously.

Way too late for his taste (how come he’s not been eaten yet? Not that he complains, mind), but the consulting git does arrive. Weirdly, John can’t hear any shots before the cover of his (well, the monster’s…but his at the moment) cage is taken away with a flourish, which convinces him it must be the hound.

Before he can have a heart attack, though, there’s Sherlock – clearly intact – crowding him in his refuge, holding him – and if John holds back, well, there’s no shame, it’s there? He just needs to get outside. Really, as much as this might be an adequate crate for a big, even a huge dog, there’s no way two adults can fit without a bit of contact. Besides, a man one who’s been trapped God knows how long, crouching all the while, barely breathing, panic doing a number on his nervous system, is entitled to cramps – and a friend is at the very least as legitimate a support as the floor, or the bars.    

Still, if it’s not been killed, the hound must have been anaesthetised – did Sherlock use a blowpipe instead of a gun? And where the heck did he find one? Before he can follow this thought further, John has been helped out of his shelter, and…there’s no hound. Not dead, not asleep…where did it go? 

Fine, maybe the sleuth just managed to open one of the other doors and that thing ran away. Maybe Sherlock doesn’t have enough meat on his bones to tempt the hound, and it’s now looking for the kitchen or something. Dogs, even genetically engineered demonic looking dogs, principally reason with their stomachs, right? Or maybe it’s gone to look for his handler. It must have one. Someone to feed it, at least. Hopefully not human flesh, though it wouldn’t surprise him.

The private joke fails to cheer him up as it normally would, the same way that Sherlock’s manner – soothing, almost nonchalant, why the fuck is he nonchalant when he just met the thing from hell, even if for him it’s the second time, it’s stupid – only manages to piss him off. Fucking reality as he knows just disintegrated, he would have sworn that no matter how someone played they’d never be able to create that…that…monster (are we sure it’s a human production and these bastards didn’t accidentally stumble into a ‘literally summon hound from hell’ ritual? Maybe playing with a goat?) and Sherlock knows and he just emanates, “eh, no biggie,” even if yesterday he was – understandably – in a state. Is this payback for his  own arseholery of yesterday? Or will the detective have the gall to offer him a brandy and tell him to get over it? after all, it seems to have worked wonders for the git.

The more Sherlock tries to placate him, the more John is tempted to snap that long, delicate-looking neck, which is, also…unusual. Not that John has never been tempted to teach the maddening lunatic a lesson, in the physical sense of the word. Being brought up by a bastard will warp your instinct at least a bit. But it also taught him to despise the old man and his methods, so John will never unleash his potential for violence unless ordered to (and/or if lives – preferably Sherlock’s, at that – are in danger). Murdering him over petty annoyance is a scary instinct. This is not him. Someone help. Not that he says so. But he yells, trying at the very least to stop the sleuth from minimizing what just happened and understand how bloody serious the situation is. The man is a genius, he’ll figure it out.   

But no, Sherlock is still cool as a cucumber (which is a stupid idiom, now that he thinks about it, who decided on it, and why the fuck is he even thinking about it with a murderous beast free), inquiring after the details of the case as if the effing human-eating thing wasn’t still roaming. Watching him, you’d think they have all the time in the world. How can a man be so brilliant and at the same time so bloody idiotic?

If John rushes through the interrogation (or tries to, because, you know, it’d be best for their survival to get out of this hellhole _pronto_ ) he can be understood. Besides, the world’s most annoying consulting detective has seen the creature too, no later than yesterday. What does he need a description for? John is sure that he’ll see the monster in his nightmares for months to come, it isn’t like you can forget something like it. Possibly not even if you hit your head trying to escape and get amnesia from the trauma, which Sherlock emphatically hasn’t.  

And then the sleuth has his used-to-be-fascinating ‘Ahah!’ moment, but this time his blogger only wants to growl. He’s been purposefully misled to check if the apparition was, in fact, the result of a drug trip instead of an actual escaped experiment. Out of all the possible details to change, the idiot in front of him had to pick something that would make the hallucination extra-scary (hallucination or not, John is sure that he’ll see these eyes glowing with the very fires of hell every time he closes his eyes for a long time) instead of something innocuous like, I don’t know, simply changing the coat’s colour. An orange-tinted hound would have been as good a check, and it would have the thing look less like something out of the darkest myths. 

So, okay, he’s been drugged, just like Sherlock. Well, no, not okay, nothing is going to be okay until the bastard is caught and preferably given a dose of their own medicine. Yeah, not very charitable, but John was convinced he was going to be _eaten alive_ a bunch of minutes ago. That’s way more than a bit not good. But at least, the world is starting to make sense again…sorta.

Now, find the poison, and you should find the poisoner too, right? Especially in a place like this where everyone has the knowledge and means to tailor a compound for their own goals…and where, hopefully, things are (mostly at least) documented. So, first step, commandeer a lab, and analyse the thing until you can figure out who exactly touched whatever creates this specific compound. Fine. Logic.

Also, John has never been happier for his maddening soulmate’s scientific preparation, because if asked to perform the analysis himself right now he might not recognise bloody water…and he’s not going to trust the very people that have created (or one of them did, but they have no fucking clue who is) this concoction in the first place. Bless Mycroft being basically God, so they’re allowed whatever they ask for, no need for extra permits, paperwork, arguments or anything else he currently does not have the strength for. 

Oddly, it seems that most of the centre’s researchers have taken a sick day, possibly warned that hurricane Sherlock was coming (by whom, though?), because the corridors to the labs are empty. Honestly, the doctor doesn’t blame them. These are supposed to be top secret studies. Hardly still, if done in the presence not only of a keen-eyed consulting detective, but also of his notorious blogger. Not that John doubts that his report of the events will need Mycroft’s approval, and contain a lot of [redacted] or asterisks. They are still a liability, though. Now, John would never sell state secrets, and his…something, he’ll angst over the proper term later, would properly find betraying his country unspeakably boring. But these people don’t know.

Unsurprisingly, the only one still in the lab is Stapleton, with her poor fairy-brilliant rabbit. Since they know about it already (and it’s not really something you’d weaponise anyway) there’s no reason not to check on Bluebell. Probably to see if the bioluminescence is stable, at least.   


You’d think that Sherlock would have his plate full with the poison, but he talks to the scientist about the sad-looking former pet, basically threatening to out her to her child if she doesn’t tell her some version of the truth herself. For someone who was – rightfully – outraged at being considered a lost pet finder, he seems really determined to make sure the child won’t grow up believing Bluebell has been snatched by the faeries or some other absurd tale. It’s kinda sweet, in a way. Still, John wants him to get to work and finish this damned case so they can go back home, where it’s safe to pass out.   

The doctor thinks he’s really holding up remarkably well. He’s not screaming anymore, just waiting quietly for the results to come in, he’s not passing out, he’s not throwing up despite having been a bit nauseous since he’s been sure that he’s _not_ in immediate danger of dying. The body is a weird thing, no matter how deeply one studies. But apparently he’s not as good an actor as he hoped, because Stapleton is concerned for him.

After Sherlock’s attitude, one would think that she would loathe him and John besides, just on principle. To trigger her nurturing attitude, he must really look like shit. And still, he claims to be fine, perfectly fine, thank you, because he would never accept even a glass of water here. You never know what might be in there.   

Apparently, Stapleton’s idea of helping out, though, is to distract him with conversation. Which…might not be so bad. And since she apparently has only one topic she’s knowledgeable about, she starts by giving him the details of her current experiment. Poor, brilliant, fluffy Bluebell.

 The doctor just hopes that his…partner (let’s settle with partner for the moment) is busy enough with his own investigation not to listen in too keenly. The last thing John needs, once finally back home, is to find jellyfishes in the sink and/or the tub so that his personal mad scientist can recreate more fluorescent pets. Hopefully Mrs. Hudson will side with him, if it ever comes to that.    

Well, since they’re investigating anyway, John tries to do his share. If Stapleton feels like talking about her job, maybe she’ll talk about more than the silly neon rabbit. Something like huge dogs from hell, maybe. He prods her with as much tact as he can muster at the moment.

The results are…disquieting. Oh, sure, she doesn’t come out and say, “Sure, we do have pony-sized dogs with fangs that can bend steel and we’re feeding them human flesh, and marrow as a treat on Sundays.” It’s what she doesn’t say that is worse. Now, John has seen war, and he’s all for whatever gets more people dead in the enemy camp than there are in yours. But still, he’s a doctor at his core. A doctor, not a scientist – maybe this is the whole issue he often has with Sherlock. These people, despite having a good number of soldiers running around, never had someone muttering, “Bit not good, that.”

If it can be done, it’s being done. To animals, humans (which is way, way worse), viruses and every element in nature.  ‘Why not?’ is a good punchline for a joke. It’s less commendable as guideline when you’re messing with living things. The lack of empathy he sees in this woman (never mind for experiment subjects, but also for her own kid, who was anguished enough over the disappearance of her pet to write Sherlock fucking Holmes a mail) makes John frown. This is not the person he would want in charge of future discoveries. The results might cause more chaos than benefits.

Before he can opt to take on himself the duty of teaching her ethics, their conversation is interrupted by a frustrated and angry consulting detective. Apparently his analysis is coming up empty. Which should be a momentary hurdle, if the man didn’t admit what he’s looking for. Drugs, of course…in the sugar. Henry’s sugar, which he used in the ‘apology cup’, and which John stupidly chugged despite finding it vile. The fucker purposefully poisoned him. Not wanting to be soulmates is a thing. Knowingly infecting one’s cup, after having suffered the effect themselves…John is sure that there is a specific circle of hell for people like that.      

  At last, rather providentially, Sherlock shoos them all out to access his mind palace before he can be too tempted to strangle him. And Stapleton’s shocked reaction makes him ponder how he’s never done on this whole ‘mind palace’ business, and now he imagines the git in a pink princess dress in his own brain, rooting through a Disney looking castle for the relevant memory. The scientist might just have unwittingly saved Sherlock’s life.

The consulting detective, finally alone, tries his best to concentrate on the matter at hand. He has few precious clues, and he needs to solve this case now. After all, if he can’t demonstrate that his latest experiment was pivotal to the solution, he might not be able to go back home. Still, part of him is still concerned with John even after the man left. It’s galling, not to mention counterproductive. Someone please stop him from being obsessed with the man. He has work to do.

Hound, hound…no, Elvis, get out of here. No matter how personally relevant the ‘you are no friend of mine’ might be to this case. He might have thrown it in frustration, but he’s all too aware that he’ll be on the receiving end of it unless he is truly brilliant _right now_ – or preferably even a few seconds ago – and gives the former soldier someone else to shoot for what he’s gone through.

Hound, Liberty, In…wait, hasn’t he read? Possibly that time he snatched Mycroft’s computer during the holidays because it was just so boring. Damn. If it’s Mycroft-level it will be under lock and key even here. Oh well. The Major left in disgust halfway through his experiment, so there’s a good chance his office is empty still. If he knows the type he’s at the inn downing stiff drinks.

Now, the man is certainly not an IT genius, so he should be able to crack his password easily…but he might need more info than the empty office can offer. That’s it. He needs to find Stapleton again. And since they’ll be together, John can come too and watch him extract the relevant files. Read the solution for himself. If he manages to do so in under a minute, he might still earn that sweet, sweet admiration he’s addicted to by now.

Thankfully, Stapleton has been around soldiers long enough that snapping at her is enough to make her offer answers to the best of her knowledge. And even more thankfully, the major let his tendency for hero worship (is this something that soldiers have in common?) overwhelm the more common tendency to pick loved ones as passwords, because finding the man’s family tree would require a handful more minutes. Instead, the answer is literally staring them in the face.

The detective might have personal opinions about ‘Maggie’, almost enough to make him consider the option of an afterlife just for the pleasure of imagining her burning in hell. But he’s not here to judge, he’s here to hack.   

The solution is finally staring them in the face, and what a drug is it! Sherlock is intimate with the kind of pharmaceuticals one would take for pleasure, whatever it meant in the moment – slowing up the brain to manageable or quickening it so much it took off earth. Obviously, he was also knowledgeable about a number of poisons, some of which affected the brain, for his work. But he’s never been required to study weapon research. Never wondered how people could do what he’s done to John , see the effects, and decide ‘this is an avenue worth pursuing’. Or not, because apparently the experiment was discontinued, because paranoid and murderous is not a combination you want – not in your men, and frankly, not even in the enemy.

The data seem to have shocked John, too, and the man was a soldier, so he should be more able to wrap his mind about chemical warfare. Then again, he was dosed not too long ago. The sleuth knows he needed quite a while to regain full control of his emotions (at least externally, because they always seem to act up anyway).

They finally know what affected them...and if it wasn’t significantly modified even how they were dosed. Airborne molecules. If it’s breathed in, it explains why John wasn’t affected, never having reached where they started hallucinating. And he supposes leaky pipes could account for the lab experience. Though, since none of the scientists seem to have been affected (it would definitely be noticeable) maybe their killer saw his request and set up for the gas to be released at the agreed time, making sure it would affect John and that his misconception would last longer.

 Now it only remains to see who’s behind this. There might not be anyone else around now, but it doesn’r automatically mean Stapleton is guilty. The gas release could have been automated, after all.  Who would have participated at these experiments twenty years ago and, despite witnessing their results, stubbornly hold onto that project, because it had potential?  Someone insane, certainly, and sadistic, too, but Sherlock is afraid too many in Baskerville would fit these two requirements. He needs to find some other parameter. Old-ish, for sure, the project shut down twenty years ago…and someone who lived in the USA for months. Someone who might have still some aftermath of that…like occasionally using American English instead of British words. Oh damn. Do all murderers in UK read John’s blog religiously? And what is their obsession with getting a call?   

Well. He can indulge this one, just the once, he supposes. Arrange a meeting with him that will end with handcuffs on his wrists. It’s not often that Sherlock meets someone who’s more of a mad scientist than himself, but at least, he keeps his experiments confined (mostly) to body parts, and would never turn someone murderous on purpose, tonight notwithstanding. He’d experienced the paranoia effect, not the violent reaction, in his defence. Possibly because John is here. His soulmate makes him feel inherently safe. The detective knows all too well that if someone or something needs shooting, the former captain will make an always correct snap judgment and unerringly hit his mark.

Before he can fully arrange Frankland’s arrest, his blogger gets a call of his own, which puts every other plan on hold. Their client finally lost it, and fled – obviously into the moor. Henry was long due for a psychotic break, especially given he must have been dosed again and again since he was a child, so no surprise there.

Part of the sleuth wants to petulantly protest about bad timing – if only this happened tomorrow, they would have been back to London already and the case out of their hands. Instead, now they need to save the young man from himself. He knows all about bad trips, and not just because of his most recent experiences. But the stupid, irrational jealousy he feels toward the young man annoys him. And then his own pettiness disgusts him. No wonder John doesn’t want to acknowledge their bond. They’re going, they’re saving Henry, and that’s that. Luckily Giles is around, because dealing with someone who is insane to an unknown level and armed, more firepower is always better than less.

They find Henry where they expect him to be – where his trauma started (and where there must be vents for the toxin, which don’t help, dammit). John is trying his best to placate the man, who – thankfully –went from homicidal to suicidal. Well, that’s progress. They can’t help him if they’re murdered by a delusional man. Now, the way Sherlock has dealt with bad trips in the past has always been to analyse the hell out of them to figure out if they were reality or if they didn’t count. He can do this for Henry. He can give him reality.

His client isn’t in the best mood to listen, sure, but he was starting to remember already. Having his memory jogged, implanted false memories replaced with what the detective has deduced must have happened – that helps. He’s not anymore a madman, dangerous to society and himself. He’s a victim of gaslighting, and someone knows. Someone is dispelling the jumble of lies and insinuations he’s been fed. As long as Sherlock’s voice is calm, determined and never, ever angry or accusatory (he knows all too well the volatile moods of a drugged man), he can put together the cracked puzzle that Henry’s life is right now. That’s the reason the young man came to him in the first place.

And then, of course, because Murphy’s law always stands, he’s just come to the part where yes, there was a dog (honestly, couldn’t the inn owners find another option? Borrow Bluebell, maybe?), but there is not, and never worse, a monster…the fucking hound calls out to them.

Wait, wasn’t the dog put down in the first place? Not that he blames the owners for not killing him if they didn’t feel like it, but…selling it? Putting him out for adoption? Anything that isn’t, you know, “let’s free an already unmanageable and possibly pissed off at being abandoned dog in the moors”? Why no one ever uses the logical part of their brain? Is every dweller of this village a victim of experiments that turned them more idiotic than most people – and that’s already a lot?

Of course, just when he has almost managed to bring Henry back to himself, the poor boy has another psychotic break, worse than the first one. At least John has his gun now – Sherlock wouldn’t trust him with one right now if it was their only lifeline – but still, fuck, couldn’t the dog wait? The thing is probably hungry, and angry, which is never a good combination on anyone, much less someone having fangs and claws. Lestrade’s terror, if restrained – at least the inspector is trained not to lose his mind when someone else is already doing it – is proof enough that, even if not the hellhound he’s already seen, there is an actual basis to his delusion, and it’s scary in its own right.    

And then, as if actual, living, hangry dog are not enough trouble, the delusions take over him again. He doesn’t have time for this! He can’t be tripping – especially not a bad, terrifying, paranoid trip – when he’s busy keeping things together and actually helping someone else. He might not have Lestrade’s training, but he has taken this case (for a _smoke_ , gosh, his priorities need revising) and he’ll see it to the end.

Still, it’s hard to keep his mind when Jim fucking Moriarty pops in front of you with that insane grin…mostly because the man is actually crazy enough that Sherlock can’t be entirely sure. Werewolf-looking dog? Sure, these don’t exist, it’s a normal – if annoyed – pooch. Jim Moriarty deciding he’s feeling ignored and Sherlock has taken too long already to solve this case, so why not pay him a visit? It makes sense…and that’s the horrifying part. Well, whoever is brain is actually perceiving right now, he’ll make the bastard regret the interruption. Everyone he cares for is already accounted for after all, and Mycroft would know better than making him a surprise visit now. That’s what Lestrade is for.

Frankly, he shouldn’t be surprised to discover that Frankland is behind his nightmare. No, not generally speaking – as in, he’s the man who drugged them – but literally the man whose likeness he twisted into the one enemy who legitimately terrifies him. His ugly face seems to be easy to twist into anything. At least, finally the sleuth manages to deduce exactly how they’ve been dosed. It’s a relief to know that paranoia does not ruin his mental faculties, as long as he has the correct data to begin with.    

The arrest is not a priority at the moment though, given the dog – who’s been breathing in the drug too, how has he discounted this until now – apparently part of his brain is still not at his best. Well, not like he can do much, he doubts that martial arts will do much against it. They have two man with a gun, luckily.

It’s a relief to know that Lestrade doesn’t usually carry one, because his aim is wildly off the mark. But they don’t have time to call an Armed Response Vehicle. And they don’t need to. It might be because this was imagined as a weapon for the military, but – despite the double dose in a short time – John doesn’t need more than one single bullet to put down the unfortunate beast. And as much as the detective doesn’t like killing pets, he still finds it awfully sexy. Oh damn. Wrong thought, wrong thought, wrong thought. How to reroute his brain?

Work – he’s here for work.  There’s his client still cowering. Henry needs to see it – the poor dog which took the blame for this whole mess. The sleuth needs to bully him into it – the young man can’t entirely be blamed if he wants to keep as far as possible from his nightmare of twenty years – but he won’t even leave his delusions behind if he doesn’t face it.

It’s just a plus that he can confront Frankland too, afterwards. Sherlock still has to explain a few details, because Henry hasn’t read the reports, and lacks a few key clues to figure everything out himself.and honestly, the case’s solution is brilliant. What’s not to like? Something, according to John, but he’s unreliable now. In fact. Henry sides with him. The Hound is a bad dream now, as it ever was, and knowing that his ‘poor deluded dad’ wasn’t deluded at all – he was as keen-eyed as the consulting detective, just unluckier (no soldier guarding him, so no surprise there) – gives him strength. They’re not genetically insane.

They just met with the worst creature the world has to offer: a doctor gone bad. Moriarty might be worse, but he needs a web of underlings. Frankland needed no accomplices to destroy who knows how many people. It would be silly to imagine these are his only victims without checking some records. Or maybe he’ll boast in jail. Who knows.

…Fine, no, he won’t speak. Not because he knows better. Because John’s bullet knocked down the dog, but apparently didn’t kill him (so maybe aim is somehow affected). A whimper is enough distraction for Frankland to flee. Obviously, the detective gives chase. After all, his legs are the longest, and he’s not about to let him get off scot free. He doesn’t check their direction, just follows. He’s rather shocked to find out their murderer didn’t, either…but thankfully for him, the madman hits a mine before Sherlock has caught up and entered the minefield too. The spectacle is...well, he wouldn’t mind the effects at a crime scene, but he’s not used to seeing it happen, and his stomach roils. If the man forgot the mines’ existence because of the drug (and honestly, not wearing a mask wasn’t one of his best moments) justice is made. Or something like that.      


End file.
